When in Rome
by Mdme Butterfly
Summary: When the Premier of Victoria puts in a personal request to one Miss Phryne Fisher, she is hard-pressed to decline. That this special task will take her to the City of Seven Hills proves far too tantalising to forgo and, before long, she embroils herself and those she cares for in a mystery that will have not only personal, but global repercussions. {Set after the Season 1 Finale.}
1. Chapter 1 - A Curious Proposition

_A/N: Hello all! Thank you for dropping by this little experiment of mine, it is very much appreciated. I probably need to offer a disclaimer at the outset, since t__ravel __in 1928 was not quite the wonder it is today__… __So, while the practicalities of this premise make the suspension of disbelief required for this story quite remarkable in size, I do beg your indulgence with some of the details. As much as I__'__d love to write three months of Jack and Phryne aboard an o__cean __l__iner__, I may have to save that for some sideline fic. ;) I hope you__'__ll stick along for the ride anyway, and I certainly hope you__'__ll enjoy it!_

xXx

"Oh come _on_, Dot! What sort of Catholic are you? I thought you'd be delighted!" The level of teasing in the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher's voice was entirely owed to the level of _excitement _she felt. Her blood was charging through her veins as she dashed up the stairs and into her bedroom with an energy that ought to have been directed to an activity more rewarding than writing a note. "After the Holy Land, Rome has to come a very close second for your lot in a game of_ '__You__'__ll Never Guess Who Touched This__'_."

"I _am _delighted, Miss, or I would be, I just - I can't _go_!" Dorothy Williams was apologetic, terrified even, as she refused her employer, following in her wake with a stocking half-darned and ignoring her light jab.

"Oh nonsense, whyever not?" the Lady Detective scoffed dismissively at the refusal as she bustled on.

"I just couldn't, not with -" There was a familiar sort of delayed and peripheral shock at the question regarding her Catholicity and Dot immediately began to worry about that as well, since her _other _great faith was unfailingly invested in Miss Fisher's accusatory abilities. If Miss Fisher asserted something, she was _never_ wrong. "It's just not done," Dot offered with a sudden lack of surety that gave off the scent of wounded prey now vulnerable. Phryne did not miss it for a moment.

"Oh, who cares about what's _done_? If I spent my life worrying about what is and isn't _done_, I'm certain I would never _do_ anything!"

"But what about -"

"Whatever it is will undoubtedly survive a little foray in the midst the _tedium _of the rest of it," the writing paper was retrieved with all the flourish and flair of a thousand Parisian artists.

"I can't, Miss Fisher. My priest would never -" the girl flailed.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake! It's just a lark, Dot! "

"It's at least a three-month journey either way!" Dot exclaimed incredulously, surprising even herself at the forthright answer. It quickly gave way to a wide-eyed look of absolute mortification as a pause filled the space that had been reserved for frantic activity a moment before and suspended the arguably one-sided conversation that had begun as a whirlwind through the front door. Phryne grinned, thoroughly inclined to be impressed with the improvement to her companion's tendency towards timidity and, as usual, pushed as far as she could along the boundary.

"And?" she pressed with the tantalising promise of adventure, a hand to her hip.

"And - and before I worked for you, Miss Fisher, I - I hadn't left Melbourne in my life," Dot pleaded by way of part explanation.

"Precisely why I insist you come along!" Phryne sat down at her bureau, allowing the height of a pristine brow to punctuate her words and express exactly what she thought of _that_ sentiment before it descended to the task of efficiently pouring out urgent instructions in her elegant hand. The question hung in the air for a moment to the rhythmic sound of her pen strokes. She sensed that a further prompt was needed. "I would hardly drag you aboard kicking and screaming, however, if you're not up to it," her glance conceded in a tone entirely designed to play on the pluck she knew lay beneath Dot's erstwhile dependence on her local clergyman, "I mean, if you're absolutely set on staying here."

"I'm not," Dot rebutted quickly, wanting more than anything to avoid what might be disappointment in her employer's voice, "it's just -"

Phryne gave a theatrical sigh of frustration, before announcing "Well, you have exactly two hours to decide!" She then rose just as quickly as she had settled and handed the missive to Dot as though she were handing her an ultimatum, "I've a feeling we could spend all day embroiled in 'it's just's, so I'm off to see man about an ocean liner! Pass this on to Mr Butler, if you would, and when I get back I expect at least a valise ready for the voyage!"

And just like that, she was gone, whipping off and leaving Dot - still with stocking in hand - once again in the centre of the room that had been the source of so many of the poor girl's most challenging decisions. She could only be grateful that the visit had been a very short one, since Miss Fisher had not had time enough to lay waste to the morning's careful righting of her boudoir. Dot allowed herself a sigh then, to counteract the tension that had risen for too quickly in her chest and actually consider for a moment what Miss Phryne had proposed.

When the lady detective had gone off for her luncheon meeting with the handsome Italian Dot could only imagine came alongside a name like Rudolpho Agostini, her companion had thought nothing of it in the long line of such appointments that peppered her lady's calendar. Now that there had been such a drastic aftermath to it, Dot fairly imagined that she had experienced a deep sense of foreboding the moment his card - ever á la mode - had arrived in her hand in the care of a phenomenally-dressed valet.

Rome!

To think she had once dreamed of going there, with its mountains of religious relics and landmarks, and _iced cream _if she were totally honest. As she considered - and quickly reconsidered - now taking her rest on the edge of Miss Fisher's bed, she could think of nothing _worse _than the opportunity that had been presented to her. In her hurry, Phryne had not considered what a trip of six months at least could mean for a girl like Dot.

Not all were so free in their lives to simply abscond for a half year and disappear into some startling adventure, expecting the pieces to fall neatly back into place when the time called for it. There was her family to consider - though she knew that her steady income would be well taken-care-of by her conscientious employer - and the business of her church commitments, of course.

Above all, however, there was Hugh.

For all of Phryne's generosity, Dot was not inclined to think that Constable Collins would be along for the ride, and if she left him now, who knew what sweeping angel would descend on him in her absence? The thought of his being unfaithful never once crossed her mind, but the possibility of her demanding his dedication to her for such an extended and unpredictable absence seemed wholly unfair. It was not within her to require such dramatic displays of love, and she was not sure that Miss Fisher - in all her sophisticated ways - would understand, which brought her to the root cause of her earlier protestation.

If Miss Fisher could not _understand_, how could Dot possibly expect her to keep her on as lady's maid? She finally gave over her objections and collapsed into a seat on the fur throw at the foot of the bed, her brows knitting in the kind of consternation that had not been uncommon to the girl's face in her latest post, despite how keenly she felt it now.

Did she have it in her to choose between her Miss Fisher and her Constable?

xXx

"The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, how are you?" Premier Hogan effused as his guest stepped lithely into his office. It had been a hop skip and a jump from their first meeting at the Windsor Hotel to the friendship that now persisted. Phryne never let go of an influential contact and the Premier had found himself moved by the tenacity with which she had advocated against the release of Murdoch Foyle. Her exploits as a detective had also not gone unnoticed to him, the nasty business with Mayor Phillips having particularly rattled the halls of Parliament at the news of his arrest.

"You will never hear me complain again, Premier, with the Autumn finally here to break this awful heat," the detective smiled as she approached and shook his hand before taking the seat he offered her in a small section of the room decorated for entertaining dignitaries and those who needed to be intimidated by the circumstance of Government.

"Yes, I can't imagine such weather is ideal for fine silks, and it would certainly get in the way of a good day coat from time to time," he chuckled.

"I never let anything get in the way of a good day coat," she countered elegantly, turning his chuckle into a laugh in earnest.

"Of course not, how stupid of me!" he raised his hands and his bright smile in playful surrender at the mere thought of having suggested that she might, "Can I offer you a drink?"

"Isn't it a mite too early in the day?" Phryne queried with an innocence so excellently feigned it almost covered over the teasing truth beneath it. Both she and her host knew full well that the time of day was as much a hindrance to a good whiskey as the weather was to a good day coat.

"This is Parliament, Miss Fisher, it is _never_ too early in the day," he moved to the sideboard to relieve a decanter of its burden and returned with two tumblers, handing one to her before sitting in his own cushioned seat. He was a picture, sitting there, his tie ever-so-slightly loosened by the work that was likely to have built to a fever pitch in light of recent political developments. It was well-known that challenges were pressing in on the Labor Government from all sides and major disagreements within the party were a serious cause for concern. From the way Phryne had read the situation, there were already hounds at the poor man's heels.

It was only a matter of extreme importance, then, that could draw him out of it; helped merrily along by the allure of a hard-earned glass of Irish Whiskey, she was sure.

"I received your offer this morning," she began, not wanting to be any more a pressure on his time than was necessary, "at the hand of a dear friend I thought never to cross paths with again after I left the Continent. You will have to tell me the fascinating story of your connection with him at a more leisurely time; it's a tale I couldn't bear to miss."

"I could tell a thousand tales and still fall short of any adventure of yours, Miss Fisher. I'm sure I'd love to hear a little of how _you_ first crossed paths with him as well," Phryne smiled enigmatically as he continued after a sip from his glass, "but he tells me there are a number of faces in this endeavour that are likely to be recognisable to you, and it could well be a conversation reserved for different circumstances, for the sake of brevity."

"Oh?" Phryne's attention pricked, her head tilting slightly at the suggestion, "He didn't mention anything to me about familiar faces, only a matter of some distinct importance, which I assumed considering the source. Although, familiar faces do point towards an answer to another pressing question I have regarding your reasoning in choosing _me_ for this assignment."

"Your reputation is formidable," the Premier responded in defence of her, as though affronted by her modesty.

"True, but hardly in a skill set that could be of any use to you," she finally sipped gently from her glass, unable to help grinning into it.

"It's hard to know what skill set would be best in this instance."

Phryne eyed him with the usual tenacity that lingered behind any moment which aroused her suspicion, "Why don't you tell me exactly what this 'instance' is, and we can muddle through the details together?" Hogan hesitated, finding more than her reputation formidable when faced with making this request of her.

"It's a rather delicate matter, Phryne," he finally began.

"I've rather a knack for delicate matters," she said.

"Quite," he conceded as she carefully upended his gilding the lily. "The Governor has asked me personally to present the proposition to you, as it is a matter of some tension between His Majesty's government and the current leadership in Rome. We should have sent our best diplomats to deal with it, but Mr Agostini insisted that your familiarity with the group in question would be a better match, and avoid a ruffling of feathers that we would just as soon avoid right now."

"I assume you are referring to the rather tentative arrangements being made between our two governments over Italian immigration?" the disdain for the policy was not far from Phryne's voice, even in the presence of a man in such a position of power. In fact, Mr Hogan was not entirely convinced it was not there for his benefit.

"It is a gentlemen's agreement," he tested, but Phryne merely rolled her eyes, "and if we do not conclude deliberations on our limitations on the quotas for Italian migrants, there will be other catastrophic economic effects on trade and shipping between the two countries."

"Never let the plight of a thousand helpless people get in the way of the bottom line," she bit back, hard and sharp.

"Phryne," he all but pleaded.

"What is the _problem, _Mr Hogan?" she pressed, holding her brows in question until any more silence became uncomfortable.

"What do you know about Benito Mussolini?"

"Il Duce?" she responded with sing-song amusement, "Men always do love a dramatic title."

"Italian men especially," the Premier responded and Phryne could not help the tilt of a smile despite her earlier political irritation.

"I know that he is just now closing his strangle-hold on Italian politics. I believe the Fascist Party has managed to finally _ban_ all other parties," she waved her hand dismissively through the air, "it's almost refreshing that he has given up his illusion of a Government of the People in favour of codifying the status quo. That said, he seems to have done a decent job of impressing most Italians on the way through, 'A Man of Action' I believe they're calling him. "

"And he certainly is that," Hogan added, "his handling of the Mafia has been thoroughly _active_. If reports are to be believed."

"Quite," Phryne's political irritation returned, this time in line with the Premier's as they both silently considered the violent means that had been employed during the Great War and the advancements that must have been made since.

"But reports are simply reports until they come from the right mouths," the Premier continued, interrupting Phryne's revisitation of undeniable horrors, "which is why you're here. We have a man on the inside - Australian-born, though he returned to Italy as a child - and he has been in contact with our people. He's offered Prime Minister Baldwin and the British Government information on Il Duce's leadership plans that are of extreme interest to us all. He promises intelligence that could neutralise whatever threat Mussolini and his Fascist Party promises in exchange for safe passage back to Australia and his remaining family here."

Phryne took a moment to take this new information in, considering the multiple angles of contention, "I can see now why the Prime Minister is far from keen to openly antagonise Il Duce by assisting him."

"Yes," the Premier acknowledged briefly, "and his Health Minister, Chamberlain, is putting a great deal of pressure on him, which is why Agostini suggested a more… feminine approach. "

"So, you want _me_ to retrieve this man?" Phryne clarified, wanting to be absolutely sure that she knew what it was the Premier's very round-about explanation was getting at.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," he said, allowing the gravity of the request the proper silence.

"I'm assuming Rudolpho was his means of contacting us," the lady detective began to conclude aloud, "but that still doesn't shed any light on his reasoning for involving me." Hogan seemed to hesitate, breathing in and considering his next words extraordinarily carefully.

"He thought you might make contact with your old friends in Rome, perhaps even Florence, and develop a ruse that might serve as a convincing, well, _reason_ for this man to return to Australia - _with you_ - without arousing suspicion," the last of his whiskey drained, the Premier was left to consider the empty glass as the delicacy of the proposition settled into a pause while Phryne attempted to make solid sense of his entire meaning.

As ever, she addressed the question head on.

"Am I to understand, Mr Hogan, that you wish me to ingratiate myself to Italian society and cultivate a love affair with this man - real or imagined - that might convince his compatriots that he has taken to Australia for more romantic reasons than political betrayal?" Her brows might have delivered her scepticism, but the tilt of her lips betrayed her incurable curiosity.

"That sounds about the long and short of it, yes," he looked up at her, meeting her challenge with forthrightness of his own.

"That _sounds_ like the poorly-developed plot of a Penny Dreadful," she countered.

"Fact is often as surprising as fiction, Miss Fisher, you of all should know that," he said. She narrowed her eyes.

"Often, it is more so." It was not clear if she was referring to the ruse itself, or the meeting in which it had been presented to her.

"You would, of course, be well compensated, to say nothing of the honour of a grateful nation," he trailed off, as though merely greasing the wheels of her decision-making.

"Naturally," she responded, less impressed with those promises than the chance to bring a little zest to proceedings. She took a moment to consider the scenario, evaluate the risks and consider the adventure, but it was clear after a moment that Premier Hogan had won, "All right. I'm in."

"Excellent! Thank you Phryne, you don't know what this means - "

"On one condition," she interrupted, causing his halt and a querying brow that creased with a little worry. Conditions from Phryne Fisher were always a little dangerous. "What are you not telling me?"

Whatever he had been imagining, _this_ request seemed to make him genuinely uncomfortable. He paused and then, "It's not so much a matter of not telling as -"

"I want all the details, or you can count me out. As fond as I am of throwing myself into unpredictable situations, I like to have at least a basic grasp of what I'm dealing with."

"Well, you needn't worry too much, I'm sure with the assistance of your travelling companion there won't be much trouble," he offered clumsily in an attempt to reinforce the request for her assistance. It did not have the desired effect, Phryne's neck arching very slightly at his remark and her grip tightening ever so subtly around her glass.

"_What_ travelling companion?" she demanded immediately.

"Of course, you couldn't expect," he started on the back foot, "after all, a woman alone - " Phryne's eyes widened to a state wildly closely to offence, prompting increasing alarm in her _current _companion. "What I mean to say is -!" he faltered.

"I assure you, Mr Hogan," she clipped, suddenly formally, bristling at both his insinuation and his presumption, "I am perfectly able to take care of myself."

To his merit, the Premier seemed to recognise his error.

"That's all very well, Phryne," he dared not voice the skepticism that threatened to colour his tone despite his efforts and found another excuse to press her into accepting proper assistance by retrieving their former ease of conversation, "but it would looked damned irresponsible for me to send you off to Italy by yourself all the same." He peered into his whiskey with a gruffness that seemed to punctuate his point. After a moment, Phryne shrugged, finding the tedium of arguing the matter a deterrent to pressing him further. She refused to be dissuaded from at least expressing her dissatisfaction with the situation, however.

"So, _who_ were you planning on saddling me with then?" the interrogation continued, despite his efforts to thwart it.

"Richard Armstr - "

"_Absolutely not,_" she cut him short, seemingly knowing the answer before he had begun to speak it and tossing her head to the side as though it were an insult to her. "I flatly refuse to spend a single day in Rome with a man who could spend an entire evening at Molly's Autumn Soirée so wholly intent on a discussion of agriculture, to say _nothing_ of the voyage."

"He's a political attaché, his expertise would be invaluable to you."

"Only if my tactics involved boring Il Duce to a point of desperation," she said, "pick again Mr Hogan."

"You know him socially, so your travelling with him would not be overly suspicious," he was leaning forward in his chair now, a politician's way of imploring if ever it had been seen.

"I know many men socially. I said _pick again.__" _

"Phryne please, I won't be at ease unless I know you're in capable hands. I need a man who can think on his feet, has a sense of duty and a knack for getting around a tricky situation. You've got to be prepared for any eventuality, and so must he. I also wouldn't say 'no' to a strong right hook…"

"Ned," Phryne stopped him in the closest thing to a panic the Premier had ever been in, and grinned, acquiescing to an old request to call him by his first name.

"Yes?" he dared.

Her head was suddenly tilted with that forceful surety that was so very often about her face and so very seldom _denied, _"I know _just_ the man."

xXx

"No," said Detective Inspector John 'Jack' Robinson, "No, no and _no_."

"But Jack, you're the absolutely perfect choice!" Phryne returned with no less enthusiasm, "You've just the wits about you and I dare say that pale skin of yours could do with an Italian Spring."

Jack looked self-consciously down at his hands, as though they might solve the mystery of Miss Fisher's consistent need to all but change the subject while she was making a point. It was but a momentary lapse, and he shook his head as the red herring proved close to distracting him and forged ahead with his defence against her latest barrage of convincing logic. "Need I remind you, Miss Fisher, that I am a _policeman _-"

"A Detective-Inspector no less," she flirted dangerously with flattery, but he continued undeterred by her more predictable tactics.

"And _as such_, I have duties that require my attention - my _consistent _attention - and I do not make a habit of abandoning them on a whim," though his words seemed heated, they remained atop his unflappable deadpan delivery like a conversation about the weather. Equally infuriating was his posture, seated casually as he was behind his desk with his arms now folded, as though to eradicate any evidence that her comments on his tan had affected him in the slightest. As his blue eyes fixed her with the kind of gaze that she was sure was meant to accuse _her _of such flippancy, his brows rose with a slight tick that challenged her to respond.

"_Whims_, Inspector, are the very essence of life," she returned with equal force of opinion, though she reserved her thoughts on duty for another time; she had learned a lot about dedication to duty and its consequences at the Front. She kept her conversation light, sparking cheekily at the end of it, "At least it is for those who will _live_ it."

She could feel his eyes narrow.

"Nevertheless," he deflected, "they are the privilege of those without places to keep, and are of little use to the likes of me."

"You're worse than Dot," she muttered, hoping the comparison would highlight just how very _delicate_ he was being at this moment. While he did not immediately respond, his deep breath in assured her that she had hit her mark at least partially. She smiled triumphantly at him and glibly undid whatever work she had done. It was foolishness to gloat before the fight was truly done.

"Then you are surrounded by people of _good sense_," he all but scolded, resolute in the face of her smug sense of victory, "and would do well to follow fewer whims."

A frown appeared on her brow, the sort that was not often found about her face, and signalled a sense of being uncomfortably thwarted in her game. That it was most prevalent around a certain Detective Inspector was a matter that was much too complicated to consider for any _real_ length of time.

Before long, she was onto the next line of attack.

"Well," she seemed genuinely disappointed, "I had hoped that you might _want_ to come along, but if you insist on being difficult, you leave me no choice."

Jack felt his stomach catch in the heady mixture of curiosity and terror that always seemed to surround his Lady Detective, and was tainted on this occasion by a betraying sense of regret that he might truly have disappointed her. Propositions that included Phryne having 'no choice' sounded distinctly unpleasant for a multiplicity of reasons, but the primary amongst them was the feeling that whatever she could cook up when she _did _have a choice was frequently horrifying enough.

"What?" he pressed cautiously.

"You've already been assigned," she shrugged, as though the fun had quite gone out of the game.

"What?" his caution was quickly replaced with a kind of restrained outrage.

"At the Premier's request," she tilted her head in the way she so often did, in the way that seemed to speak of sweetness and innocence and childlike uncomplication that was purview of less worldly women. That she managed it so effortlessly, with such conviction and with so little guile, baffled him still.

"Right," he returned, unsure what exactly he had to say to that. While he hated resignation, there truly was little he could do to resist the task, save losing his position, and a little voice begged that there were worse things in the world than accompanying Miss Fisher to Italy.

"Don't worry, Jack," she grinned brightly at his acquiescence, as though it hadn't been obtained through a carefully constructed extortion, "you're safe with me!"

Her enthusiasm was contagious and Jack found himself pandering to the latter of his internal voices, as he seemed to be doing more and more of late. As she swept from his office with all the flair of her obvious excitement, he had to admit to himself that, whatever she said, there were parts of him that would _never _be safe with the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher.

xXx

_A/N: And there you have it folks! Please review if you have a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts. Now that all the exposition is out of the way, I promise a bit more fun in the next chapter. :) _


	2. Chapter 2 - An Adventure Unfolds

_A/N: Thank you so much to those who have reviewed so far! I really appreciate it. :) With the narrative down, hopefully this chapter delves a little more into those character dynamics that we love. Thankfully, a little more research has revealed a great deal more on the journey from Melbourne to Genoa, and I am delighted to announce that the trip actually took a much more manageable thirty to forty days! As though I needed another reason to admire the Suez Canal. While I am still inclined to make a fic of the voyage, at least we won__'__t have to worry about missing quite that much of Jack and Phryne in a confined space. Anyway, onwards. Enjoy! _

xXx

The meeting with the Chief Commissioner had not gone at all as Jack had hoped. He had put his concerns about his departure to the man with his usual respectful forthrightness, but just as he had suspected, with the order coming from the top, his concerns had been neatly dealt with. His position would be there for him when he returned, his income and responsibilities catered for in his absence. Everything had been taken care of, and not by him. The other information he had garnered shed some light on the Premier's peculiar request for his services, but it had also entrenched the sensation of his feeling ill-at-ease about the entire affair. He had been stunned by the news as Miss Fisher had so neatly deposited it in his lap the afternoon before; for all her usual unpredictability, her schemes had never been quite so far-reaching in their execution, nor so dangerous in their high-stake intricacies.

This was not some thug on the pier, or a room full of socialites. This wasn't even a highly-intelligent madman, hellbent on a grimly superstitious entrance into the Great Beyond.

In the same way Jack would have traded that room full of socialites for a sound whack to the head with a lead pipe, he would have traded this proposition for any of the dangers he and Miss Fisher had encountered thus far. It was a serious matter, considering the number of close calls they had so narrowly escaped - the memory of Phryne's unconscious figure in his arms was not one easily dispelled - but the parameters of this mission begged to test those limits. Jack knew what it was like to be in the thick of his enemies, he had seen the trenches, done his time at the Front. It was a world of constant fear, and even then, he had been able to spot the opposing force by the cut of their uniforms. What he was being asked to step into? It was a world of shadows, a game of deception played in an arena where one could never be sure which faces were players. Worse still, it was right in the thick of enemy territory and totally under their command. He had heard rumours amongst the migrant communities about Mussolini's tactics of policing, and had certainly encountered his fair share of misplaced distrust when it came to facing officers of the law.

He was worried.

Of course, Phryne had been to war as well, not in combat, but she had seen it all, and he had rarely known her to be out of her depth. It wasn't the finishing schools and high society drawing rooms that had given her a nose for trouble, it was the dreadful reality that had seemed to follow her from birth and she had taken it all in stride. She seemed to be in possession of an endless silo of fortitude and cunning, not to mention her considerable intellect and unmatchable wit. The fact of the matter was, however, that whatever she faced, she did so with such an apparent lack of care for her own safety, Jack could not help the pressing fear that her good fortune must run its course eventually. The multitude of horrid possibilities surrounding this assignment had crowded his thoughts and kept him from arguing his involvement with her further the day before, especially when she had so casually brought down the Premier's request on their conversation and taken the wind from his sails.

She knew he was a man of duty who took his orders from the chain of command.

In truth, it stuck a little, like a twig under his wing. It was not unlike Phryne to upset his plans, either through impenetrable logic, or flagrant disobedience, but crossing the boundaries of a crime scene, or alleviating said scene of evidence - which would undoubtedly resurface at a later stage - were different matters entirely to derailing the steady work that had kept him since the war. For all that he had deflated in arguing with her about the matter, she had failed to answer any of his objections about abandoning his post. As much as he tried to avoid it, thoughts of Rosie pressing him towards quieter desk work flickered in the back of his mind. While Miss Fisher would certainly never demand tedium from him, the sidelining of his own choice in the matter was much the same. He refused to give too much thought to the fact that he had allowed Miss Fisher into the same space in his mind that his ex-wife had always occupied. Hat in hand, he intended to address this concern with her as quickly as possible, and with as much professionalism as could counter her apparent disregard for it .

It was mayhem about number 221B, however, and whatever Jack had been planning to say, it was muddled by the business about the entrance hall. Mr Butler was not there to greet him and he all but tripped over Cec and Bert as they moved passed him and into the parlour with a trunk so large, he wondered immediately whether or not they had hidden the rest of the household in it. He could hear the bustle of the others, however, lurking in other rooms, _packing_ he assumed. He could hear Mr Butler's clear, strong voice from the kitchen instructing Dot to be careful with the Countess Crockery - what in Heaven's name could she have planned that she needed to bring her own crockery?

"Hello Jack!" she descended from above like a lark with her usual jovial greeting.

"Miss Fisher," he returned, his frown indicating his thoughts almost as much as the seriousness of his voice, "I see you're wasting no time at all."

"Why delay?" she asked as she reached the landing in a perfectly embroidered housecoat, a peacock-feather pattern twining elegantly around the cuffs of her sleeves and collar. Silk slippers peeked out from beneath the hem, and Jack realised that it must still be early in her day.

"I'm informed that the boat won't leave until Friday, at least," he reasoned.

"It's Tuesday, Jack. It never hurts to be prepared," she shrugged. At that point, Cec and Bert returned with a second trunk, arguably larger than the first and Jack eyed it as they passed.

"I doubt there'll be room aboard for us all to be quite that _prepared_," he smirked despite himself. When he looked up, however, to see that his retort had hit home, he found her smiling instead. It was warm and the brightness of her eyes matched as she clapped her hands together with joy.

"I am _delighted_ to hear that you're coming," she enthused. Jack frowned, somewhat confused by the statement, considering it was she who had yesterday made it so clear that he hardly had a choice in the matter.

"I thought that was the idea," he reminded her.

"Yes, but when I heard you were meeting with the Chief Commissioner this morning, I thought it was touch and go," she confided with perfect frankness, "he can be such a gullible old thing, and we all know that you can be _terribly convincing_." The temperature in her smile seemed to escalate as she passed him, brushing her fingers absent-mindedly across his forearm with her last words. If it was a tactic of hers, he could not see to what end she was trying to manipulate him. Though, guessing when Phryne was being serious and when she was not was about as easy as teaching a kangaroo the Foxtrot, and perhaps equally ridiculous unless she intended to show it.

He realised he was standing alone in the entrance hall. His hat was also growing slightly misshapen in his grip.

"Miss Fisher, I meant to call in and speak to you about yesterday," he said, following into the drawing room as though he had not missed a beat. She was not there and he turned to look about him, only to see her emerging from the kitchen with a piece of paper in hand, which she scoured intensely.

"Hmmm?" she offered, clearly paying little attention. Perhaps this had been a poor time. He reminded himself that her habits were unlikely to produce much by way of a more suitable one; in this instance, the first moment he was likely to find would be aboard the ship!

"Phryne," he stated bluntly, fixing her with a determined gaze. She looked up at once, noting the tone in his voice.

"Yes, Jack?" the paper went limp in her hand.

"Yesterday?" he prompted.

"What about it?" she asked.

"I spoke with the Chief Commissioner this morning, and -"

"I know, I just sai-" confusion seemed to be gathering about her face and Jack stopped her with a sharp look. She quietened. He was about to continue, when a realisation struck him and his own confusion took centre stage.

"How _did_ you know I was meeting with the Chief Commissioner?"

"I told you, I heard it this morning," she said as though it answered his question.

"From _whom_?" he supplied quickly. Phryne could not help the smile.

"Constable Collins has been very helpful with some of the heavy lifting," she said. Jack took in a breath, readying himself to start in on her tendency for challenging the loyalty of his constable, but he knew all too well that it would only lead him in the wrong direction and away from the purpose of his visit.

"He mentioned that the Premier had asked for me by name after a meeting held at his Parliamentary office," he said, his lips coming together in the slight pout she had noticed when he asked leading questions. She was tempted for a moment to make light of the ambiguity of his statement and joke that she did not know that Hugh had been promoted to office work. The look on Jack's face told her that being intentionally obtuse was not the order of _this _day, no matter how splendidly it worked on others. They both knew that he was referring to the Chief Commissioner and she immediately tried to avoid talking about it. She folded the piece of paper, grasping it between both hands and glancing about her as though she did not know quite what he was driving at. Jack did not move, "That meeting, I later found out, was with you."

Phryne looked up at him from beneath her lashes, holding the pause seemingly for effect. He wondered fleetingly whether she'd deny it.

"Yes. Yes it was," she finally conceded. Their eyes met in that familiar tension that seemed to serve a multiplicity of purposes, each indistinguishable from the next.

"Hardly a glowing endorsement from the Premier directly," he concluded, knowing full well that she understood his meaning.

"I made a _small_ suggestion, Jack," she defended, throwing her hands up as though it was nothing at all.

"A small suggestion that resulted in the very outcome you wanted and one that came before you had even broached the subject with me," he countered. "A small suggestion that now has the full weight of Cabinet behind it and very little room to move," his head was tilted forward in accusation.

Phryne shifted a little uncomfortably and Jack felt, as he too often did, that she had felt the force of his disapproval before he had a chance to verbalise it. He supposed it was natural to one who so easily read others. Saying what he had intended to now would only drive the point home in a manner that felt a little like kicking a puppy. The look on her face ought to be a hanging offence. He knew it had prevented her from hearing exactly what she ought to from the likes of him for Heaven knew how many years.

He indulged her nonetheless, much the way he had the first time she had bandied his name about on the Ballarat train.

"I suppose we had better discuss _exactly_ how we plan to approach this," he said, forging ahead to take the lead on the situation in any way that he could. Phryne smiled at once, all earnestness, and he suddenly questioned his earlier summation that knowing when she was being sincere was difficult.

She seemed to wear her emotions so brashly at times.

"An excellent idea, Inspector," she said, her shoulders visibly relaxing. And then, "I really am just so glad that you're here."

xXx

It was not the usual run of things for Hugh Collins to spend his days off carrying boxes of ladies unmentionables, and as soon as he had been able, he had left Cec and Bert to the task of dealing with Miss Fisher's rapidly increasing number of trunks. After all, the purpose of his visit had been to see Dot and, with her in the kitchen under Mr Butler's watchful eyes, and he traipsing up and down stairs, there had been little opportunity to do that. He had got wind of the conversation that had ensued between the Inspector and the woman who had seemingly become a permanent fixture in his office, the conclusion of which had yet to be determined, he was assured by the other men at the station.

As much as Jack would hate to learn of it, the boys at City South had taken to running bets - of the purely recreational kind, of course - as to which party would walk away the victor at the end of each 'Miss Fisher Entanglement'. What had begun as a tentative concern as to the Inspector's fortitude and masculinity in repelling this seeming annoyance, had grown to an almost familial game, in which Miss Fisher's considerable charms had led to the light-hearted tally of 'wins'. Hugh would _never_ tell Jack how divided his staff's loyalties were on the matter, and would never allow himself the liberty to reflect on how the relationship affected the Inspector's relationship with his _superiors _at the Victorian Constabulary. On this occasion, however, the jury was still out, Miss Fisher having seemingly won the battle, with the war still in the balance. Hugh had glowed with pride that the Inspector had not simply acquiesced, his meeting with the Chief Commissioner a sign that the fight was still in him. Hugh always took some joy in that fight, since his own against the woman's direct attentions almost always succumbed to an embarrassing sort of malleability.

Of course, the promise of some victory had meant nothing when he had thought a little further on the proposition.

Whatever Inspector Robinson's intentions regarding Miss Fisher's trip abroad - and the reasons for her wanting him to accompany her, which remained a tantalising secret - he knew the Lady Detective would be off in a shot, and the reality of that hit him with a force he did not quite know how to handle when he realised the potential consequences. It had become imperative that he seek out an answer to his immediate fears.

Men from the Continent were famed for their charms. The majority of them were Catholics. He couldn't speak Italian.

"Dottie," he interrupted from the back door to the kitchen.

"Just a minute, Hugh," she returned, looking impressively unflappable despite the fact that Hugh knew she was a little flustered by the activity that bustled through the house, "if I don't get this collection of Crockery together soon, we'll be behind schedule."

Hugh didn't dare ask what might happen if they got _behind schedule_.

His need to know, however, trumped his concerns about it and after a moment of faltering uncomfortably in the doorway as she continued about her task, he pressed ahead. "I just need to talk to you about this," he stated firmly. He could see her hand halt above the piece of paper on which she was cataloguing pieces, the telltale way her lips rolled together when she was nervous.

"I - I can't right now," she said as she pushed the pen down again and furrowed her brow. It was hurtful to him, though she had not said very much at all, but he didn't know how to turn the situation around and get her to acquiesce without being more forceful. There was nothing on earth he could imagine that might be worse than being forceful with Dot. Silence hung between them as she consumed herself in her work.

"But, don't you think we ought to sort this through?" he found the words coming out of his mouth without prompting them to do so, facing his own surprise at them as much as he faced the tipping point of her being unable to bear the problem. She stood a little too quickly, her face flushing pink as she picked up the tray of cups and saucers.

"I really do have work to do, Hugh."

xXx

Having convinced Jack to let her change and eat before they discussed his details, Phryne found that she was extraordinarily grateful for Mr Butler's fortifying, two-tier lemon pudding. The one o'clock luncheon was supposed to be a small affair, soup and sandwiches with the best of them, but - as with anything else - Phryne was not inclined to deny herself for tastes of others.

She had pudding when she wanted it.

That Jack seemed perfectly content in polishing off his own serving, continued to solidify the deep-seated suspicion she had developed after working with him for some time that he was the very _best_ sort of man.

"It's wickedly good, isn't it?" she said, watching as he settled the last morsel in his mouth, her own plate empty and her hands neatly wrapped in her lap in demure contrast to the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Finishing his mouthful and caught in a moment in which he was unable to respond immediately - a tactic he believed Miss Fisher had honed to an art - he settled back into his chair with an air of contented nonchalance. He placed his spoon down as he finally finished off the remnants of what could be described as 'Heaven in a Bowl' and returned her gaze.

"Isn't that somewhat an oxymoron, Miss Fisher?" he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin in a way that convinced her she was right. Had he been a cat, she could have seen him cleaning his whiskers. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she enjoyed watching him do it.

"You know me, I'm hardly about to let the threat of error step in the way of properly expressing myself," she picked up her glass of fruit wine with a smirk, knowing how fond he was of the English language, "not even the threat of _grammatical_ ones."

"It's no wonder, then," he commented enigmatically. Phryne tilted her head in query when he didn't continue immediately, unable to guess where he was going. "That there are so many who have a hard time _understanding_ you," he finished.

She chuckled at that, consistently warmed by his light-hearted side. When first she'd waltzed into his crime scene, she had pegged him for a terrible bore. She had been delighted to discover that beneath Inspector Robinson's quaint regard for the regulations - which she hesitated to suggest had become inexplicably charming in and of itself - there lingered a mischief as ready as hers, if not quite as visible. She savoured the ambiguity in his words for the rarity it was, a punctuated flirtatious moment in their discourse that she laid gently down beside the others that had been tallied in their working relationship. The number was growing steadily larger, and certainly the rate of the increase had become exponential of late. Her curiosity about this was undeniable, but she had not yet reached the point of wanting to tamper with their dynamic.

Constable Collins had left - rather abruptly, Phryne thought, making a mental note to ask Dot about it later - and Cec and Bert had promised to return the following day after running a few of their _own_ errands for the afternoon. With Mr Butler and Dot taking care of the luncheon dishes, Phryne and Jack settled into a rather comfortable sort of lull in the frenzy of her spontaneity. Jack was exceedingly grateful for the silence and a moment to catch his breath. Though, having her watch him so intently while he ate had made that a little more difficult than he cared to admit. So he watched her right back now, as she laughed at his subtle humour, and allowed himself to relax a little. As though she perceived it, she turned the tables on him once again.

"All right," she finally announced, suddenly businesslike in her approach despite the teasing that was coming, "you've distracted me long enough, Inspector! Wasn't their a point to this luncheon? Or were you just using me as a pretext to get at Mr Butler's watercress salad?"

"It is well known what lengths I would go to for Mr Butler's watercress salad," Jack tilted his head in all seriousness before he shook it and turned his thoughts finally to what they had promised to discuss, "but you are correct as ever, Miss Fisher."

"We must, of course, decide what it is we'll tell everyone about you," she began, taking her pick of the intricacies that would need hashing out over the next two days, "I think having a Detective Inspector in my care might raise a few red flags, and we all know _precisely _how Signor Mussolini feels about red flags."

Phryne's socialist leanings had kept her informed about the suppression of Communism in Italy and the rounding up of the socialist party in Rome had been no secret at all.

"We do," Jack said, taking a sip from his own glass of wine, "and I suppose it depends entirely on what you believe would pass the test with your connections in Rome."

"A fledgling actor?" Phryne leapt at the opportunity, her smirk already consuming part of her bottom lip, "I could be your wealthy benefactress."

"Do try to be serious," Jack reprimanded, though the tilt to his lips was obvious. Phryne's smile only broadened.

"I am serious! Your Modern Major General would be a hit at La Scala!" she pressed with much theatricality.

Jack did not give her the satisfaction of a response. She settled.

"Since I frequently travelled with friends, I see no reason why we couldn't pass you off as one of Melbourne's society boys," she said, thinking genuinely aloud, "there are a great number who could use a little educating in the arts particularly. Perhaps I've offered you my expertise whilst on tour?"

Jack nodded as he thought it through, since his inexperience with local culture would then be an asset rather than a weakness, "Yes, that could be passable."

"Well, you could, perhaps, but your wardrobe," she hesitated, not wanting to offend him, "would need a few additional items."

Jack took a breath, as though to speak, but halted as a frown caused him to look down at his current suit before he gathered the politesse to respond, "I didn't realise my style of dress was so - deficient."

"Not at all!" Phryne quickly assured him, "It's just a matter of Italian taste. That's of little importance, however, I am sure we will forge ahead."

As though to make a point of ensuring that they did not _forge ahead_, Mr Butler appeared to collect the remaining dishes, without the slightest look of curiosity about him. Jack withdrew his hands from the table and smiled, refusing to engage in further conversation nonetheless until the man was out of the room. Whilst he was sure Miss Fisher would trust her butler with anything, this was not _anything_. In fact, Jack wondered suddenly what exactly Phryne had trusted her little band to know, and as soon as the coast was clear, he put that thought to words.

"What have you told your staff?" he hated the word, and Phryne did too by the quirk of a brow.

"Exactly what I ought to," she said, "I'm off on a tour of Italy with my dear friend Mr Agostini to visit old friends and will be back when the wind blows us by."

"And your explanation of my accompanying you?" he pressed.

"I haven't yet broached it with them," she replied, "you'll recall that it wasn't until this morning that I was sure of your going. What did you tell Constable Collins?"

"I explained that it was a matter of state business and therefore none of his," Jack countered simply with a smile, "the police force has little room for constables who spend too much time asking 'why'."

Phryne rolled her eyes, "That could be a slight hindrance to good policing, if you ask me."

"Yes, well, the limitation on questions relates only to those directed at superiors," he defended with a smile. "Won't you be expected to travel with some household staff?"

"Yes," Phryne ventured, looking down at the table, "Mr Butler will certainly be along after we've closed up the house, and I've put the invitation to Dot, though she is characteristically hesitant." Her eyes lifted to catch his gaze as he pondered the ramifications of what she had just said.

He assumed that the invitation to come along had not been braced with a warning about the dangers involved. Phryne seemed to share his concerns by the look she gave him, but she had clearly not yet decided what could be done about it. Part of her now sincerely hoped that Dot would follow her first instinct and remain behind. When she had first pressed her companion, it was not with the knowledge of just how intricate the endeavour would become.

"I am sure a solution will present itself," Jack finally answered, and Phryne could only nod in agreement.

That seemed to be the way of things in her world.

xXx

"Dorothy," Mr Butler began, broaching the subject that had risen in his concern with unfailing discretion, "Forgive me, but I believe that plate is well and truly dry."

"Oh," Dot blinked, her thoughts anywhere but present as the pair of them took to righting the kitchen after luncheon. She stood now wiping idly at droplets that had long-since vanished from the dish in her hands, and the realisation forced her into a small, embarrassed smile, "Yes."

She picked up the next, her brow furrowing once more over the task.

They stood in silence for a moment, Mr Butler casting his glance over at intervals that proved effective for his reconnaissance. Had Phryne been aware of his uncanny knack for observation, she might have put him to work outside the kitchen. Once he was certain what must be occupying the young maid's thoughts, he turned back to watching the soap suds move around the hands that left his rolled-up sleeves. His brows rose gently in subtle query as he began again.

"Do you know," he offered softly, "I can't help but feel a little unsure about this whole business."

Dot looked up at him, thoroughly surprised. In all the time that Mr Butler had worked for Miss Fisher, Dot could name not a single incident in which he had questioned her judgment. Now, his comment sailed perilously close to that wind, which Dot felt was the height of disloyalty, a fact that supplied a steady reason for her guilt at thinking _exactly _the same.

"I am sure Miss Fisher knows precisely what she's doing," she defended with a strength more forceful than she intended.

"I do not doubt it," he assured her, continuing at his leisure, scrubbing at a bowl and speaking with dispassionate openness, "and I am certain she is well-equipped to take the full measure of the whole affair, but it does strike as a little beyond the usual escapade. Were it not for my own position of disconnect, what with Mrs Butler gone, I should certainly think it through most thoroughly before committing to it."

Dot hesitated, knowing quickly what he was getting at and most grateful for his branch of support, even as it involved speaking potentially ill of their employer's current scheme. That obstacle glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth for what seemed an age, and again the silence settled until her considerations concluded that Mr Butler was uniquely positioned to help her. It would be thoroughly ungrateful not to accept his gracious understanding - certainly since his advice where Hugh was involved had previously been of such value.

"It is - an unusually long journey," she began, her tone laced with uncertainty, "I've certainly thought about how long we would be away."

"Yes," Mr Butler acknowledged gravely.

"And it would be difficult to manage one's affairs from such a distance," she tried to fashion her thoughts in the abstract, feeling a little subconscious as she almost stumbled over the word 'affairs', "family cares and the like, I mean."

"Certainly," the sound of sloshing water seemed about all he was ready to add until she came out with it.

"I mean, I know we'll be back, but it's almost like going away for good," she looked back at her plate.

"The interruption in certain matters especially, might be considered permanent," he accepted, furthering the idea in a way that might make it more comfortable for Dot to talk about it, "after all, family might not be in a position to let you go, or other matters of equal importance might be interrupted by such a departure, certain pertinent… investments perhaps?"

"Yes!" Dot leapt at that moniker a little too enthusiastically when she saw her opportunity to speak in euphemism and she had to train her response back, "S - supposing it was a limited offer investment? That required your being present to take full advantage of the… opportunity?"

Mr Butler glanced at her sideways, pausing as he thought his words through, encoding as he went, "It might be so if others are anxious to move ahead with the endeavour. Though, if it is a _sound_ investment, I see no reason why it should not remain a good opportunity for some time to come."

"No. I suppose that is true," Dot said, "but there are a lot of opportunities out there, and something else - some other possibility - might present itself in the mean time?"

Mr Butler frowned then, his sentiments on 'other possibilities' entirely clear when it came to Dot. If Constable Collins thought any 'other possibility' might suit him better than this one, he deserved whatever trifling thing he ended up with. His voice was intent as he spoke to the girl's insecurities, "I doubt such a 'once in a lifetime' proposal is so easily repeatable elsewhere in a matter of months."

Dot blinked at the compliment, feeling herself flush for the kind words; her mother's war against vanity had made her a stranger to such compliments. "All the same," she said through her shy but grateful smile, "wouldn't it be… bad business to require everyone to put the entire matter on hold?"

Mr Butler nodded, now comprehending the anxiety surrounding the matter more thoroughly. "Certainly it would be unexpected," he suggested, "but whether that was a matter of bad business would depend entirely on _business_ relations."

Dot stopped then, unable to communicate adequately what she was feeling in code. She was not _sure_ of the status of business relations, she was note sure of the nature of the investment either. It seemed conceit on her part to believe it 'once in a lifetime', as Mr Butler had, alongside all the ramifications of such a _proposal_. She felt warm under the collar just thinking that way.

She simply was not sure.

Mr Butler seemed to sense this about her hesitation as he handed over the final dish and reached the end of his task. It was difficult to know what to say. Dorothy must make this decision for herself and no one else. Of that he was undoubtedly sure. But it was also a matter of lives, not larks, and he understood very well how much pressure she must be feeling. He decided that there was only one thing, really, that ought to come of it, and he encouraged her in the only area in which he could see her decision-making lacking.

"Well, one thing is for certain," he challenged, turning away from the sink with a towel to dry his hands, "nothing at all will come from _not talking_ to the other investors."

xXx

The City South Police Station seemed unusually daunting that morning, and Dot clutched her purse more tightly in her hands as she steeled her nerve for the conversation she realised must occur as soon as possible. She had been left with the night to consider both what Miss Fisher had said to her about the upcoming adventure and what Mr Butler had surreptitiously urged her to do around the sanctity of the sink. Whatever fears she held about the decision before her, she must make them _known_ if she wished to deal with it at all constructively. It would be a test, she'd decided, of the increasing resolve that she had recaptured after her constant walking on eggshells around John Andrews. A test of everything that Miss Fisher had brought into her life.

A test, also, of the burgeoning trust she had in her constable and her ability to _share_ things with him.

The fact of the matter, she had finally admitted to herself, was that she _wanted _to go. It was an opportunity that had been presented to her by sheer fortune and to turn her nose up at it would be folly of the highest order. She had been granted a chance at the extraordinary, and if she could not take it, then she did not deserve it or the impossibly brilliant woman who had pressed it into her path. Extraordinary things were extraordinary precisely for the reason that ordinary people feared them, and if she was to be anything _but_ ordinary, then this was her chance to prove it. She wanted more, not because Hugh was not enough, or that the life she might live with him was beneath her, but because life was giving her something _else_ as well and she wanted to seize it with both hands.

"Good morning, Hugh," she said resolutely as she entered the building and saw him bending carefully over the front desk, scribbling something into his notebook.

"Dottie," he blurted as he saw her. It was early yet, she had to return to the house in good time to assist Miss Phryne with another project of the _utmost _importance, and she had taken what little time she had left. There was no one else at the entrance, but she got the feeling, as Hugh turned to check behind him, that there were others on duty round the back.

"I didn't want to interrupt," she quickly apologised as she realised that the meeting might not be appropriate while he was on duty.

"No!" he hurried, anxious not to let her go now that she seemed willing to talk with him, "no, it's all right."

"I just," she started again, "I just thought we ought to talk about Miss Fisher's… trip abroad."

"Right," Hugh acknowledged, glancing once more behind him before suggesting they perhaps move the conversation away from the entrance. He enlisted the help of another constable to watch the phone and any incoming visitors, and then ushered her through to one of the rooms used for routine questioning. Dot tried not to make anything of the fact that it was the frequent sight of _aggressive interrogation_. Hugh watched her expectantly.

"Right," she echoed back to him. There was a pause as her surety left her. She shut her mouth at once. Eternity passed.

"Dot, I -" "Hugh, I -"

Nervous laughter. She took a breath and tried to swallow her fear as she rolled her lips together.

"Hugh," she began again, resolute, "Miss Fisher has asked me to accompany her to Rome." While they both knew the problem, stating it was a start, and she felt like it ordered the thoughts that came after. Hugh nodded slowly, his eyes casting downward for a moment and shaking Dot's footing. she wanted to run to him, forget the whole thing and go to the pictures. Well, after he was released from duty. And after she had assisted Miss Fisher with her remaining tasks. And helped wrap those items she was taking aboard as cabin wear. Dot shook her head. _Focus_. She thought of Phryne, and then, "And I'd really like to go."

Hugh looked crestfallen. He trained his glance on a spot on the floor and braced his fingers against his palms. It was the absolute worst possible reaction, and Dot felt her stomach fall to the ground. She froze, her words sticking well and truly in her throat.

"I understand," he said finally, the tremor in his voice unmistakable. Dot had to remind herself to talk it through, to assume nothing.

"I know it's a lot to ask of you," she pressed gently on.

Hugh nodded slowly before he took in her words and lurched up in surprise, "Of me?!"

Dot frowned, panicked by his sudden outburst, but also unsure what she had said to prompt such a response, "Yes, I had thought - oh, you're right, it's too much. I'm sorry!" She covered her face with her hands. Hugh simply stared at her, trying to make sense of everything that was happening.

"Why would it be asking a lot of me?" he tried put it to her plainly, "It would be selfish of meto ask you - _I_ would have thought - "

"It's so terribly selfish of _me_," she accused herself, "I mean, after everything, to ask you to wait -" She couldn't say it now. It sounded horrid, outlandish. Hugh's eyes brightened at once, latching on to her last.

"To wait?" he rushed, suddenly overwhelmed, grasping for words for a second, "Dottie, of _course_ I'll wait!" She looked up at him, blinking now in shock. It wasn't the response she had expected at all. She searched his face, but found only exuberant joy and she wondered how it had happened. "I -" he felt foolish, as he so often did when it came to her, "I thought you'd come to tell me that this was it."

Dot paled, shaking her head emphatically, "No! I came to apologise! Leaving you in the lurch like this for Heaven knows how long. It's, it's awful, really." Hugh laughed with delighted grace.

"It's not awful," he said simply, calming now that he knew what it was she wanted from him, "It's an adventure." An adventure that required the presence of Detective Inspector Robinson, he suddenly thought, and all the nerves he had felt before about good Catholic husbands became worry about what would require the presence of Detective Inspector Robinson.

Dot beamed at him, excitement braking through all the boundaries she had built for it since Monday, and before she knew where she was or what she was doing, she had rushed across the room and was kissing him soundly and erasing most of his thoughts. "Oh Hugh," she gushed, "_thank you_."

He was content to be thanked in that many at _any_ time of day, but he became acutely aware of where they were and swiftly put his hands on her shoulders and gently moved her to a more appropriate space. "You're welcome," he said awkwardly and then reconsidered it, "I mean, I don't know what I mean." He grinned.

"I'd better be getting back," she finished neatly for him, "Miss Fisher has something urgent that needs doing before tomorrow. I suspect it has something to do with the Inspector." She didn't think long on it. Hugh did, however, growing suddenly nervous again.

"Dottie," he ventured, "Do you know what this is about?"

"If I had reason to believe that it was anything other than what I had been told, Hugh Collins, I'd be inclined to ask the person I _doubted,_" she returned with a smile.

xXx

"Let me see how it looks on you!" Phryne demanded, though it was thrill that made her forceful, rather than command.

"Right here?" Jack responded with something akin to alarm.

"Unless you want me to scandalise you by suggesting other spots," she said, placing her hands theatrically on her hips, "please stop acting as though the Sun News-Pictorial is about to march through my door for a front-page exclusive of you in a vest."

The tailor had been and done his work as swiftly as was possible to turn out garments with which Miss Fisher would be content, and Jack had to admit that - despite the fact that he had complained bitterly about not being able to employ his own man - the end result was impressive. With a frown to chastise her impatience and her tone, he pulled off his coat and drew a brand new blazer from the box on her chaise longue. It was a linen of rich cream - a thoroughly impractical colour to Jack's mind - with a lining of spun silk meant entirely for leisure. He took a deep breath in, thinking how much it must have cost her and feeling thoroughly uncomfortable about it as he pulled it on.

"Oh, it's practically perfect! Mr Harper has done a superb job, it's just the thing for a Summer night or a stroll on deck," she brightened as he stood with his head tilted, as though to ask if she were quite satisfied. She began to pace around him, rather like she was sizing up a portion of meat at the butcher's, and when he expected her to pass more commentary, she stayed uncharacteristically silent. It was thoroughly unnerving. He had to speak at once, or risk shifting in his feeling of her gaze on him.

"I will never understand, Miss Fisher, your fascination with dressing me," he muttered gruffly as she gestured for him to lift his arms to look at the cut. She seemed unfazed by his apparent discomfort with her examination, however, and stepped forward to straighten his lapels.

"If you'd prefer Inspector," her fingers lingered in their hold on his attire in direct contrast to the flippancy in her voice, her eyes slipped quickly upward with impish intent, "I could always go in for the fascination of _un_dressing you." Jack stared straight back at her, guarding his expression impressively and blinking at his leisure. She was suffocatingly close, however, and would not have missed his very slight jump of surprise for all the world. It was nice to know that she still possessed the ability to shock him, even if she had to be this near to him to perceive it.

She idly wondered what other benefits could be had from standing this near to him.

There was little time to find out, however, since a neat collection of boxes indicated that it was not simply a blazer that was the focus of this morning before their departure. As much as Phryne _adored_ the variety of Jack's steady rotation of three-pieced suits, it was essential that his wardrobe pass the discerning eyes of her friends in Italy without raising suspicion. Naturally, not all were tailored exactly for him, owing to the time, but there were shirts and sporting trousers, and a darling pair of boat shoes that were an absolute must when they took the inevitable trip to the isle of Ischia, near Naples.

"Anything further on Miss Williams?" Jack cut across her thoughts, and Phryne gave a slight sigh to think of it.

"I'm afraid she's being just as brave as I hoped she'd be," she said, helping him off with the blazer and folding it neatly back into its box, "after a rousing conversation with her Constable, I gather she's off to take the world by storm." The irony was not lost on Phryne that the thing she most wanted and the thing she most ardently did not want, were precisely the same.

"I see," Jack's face crunched into perplexity. There was another jacket, this one suitable for evening wear and a pristine navy blue. "That does present some difficulty for us," he considered aloud.

"Yes, I know," Phryne replied as she stepped back to examine the new item, "whatever reason I give her - or don't give her - regarding your coming along, it's unlikely to last passed the first time I introduce you as Mr John 'Jack' Moneybags of Toffsville, North Melbourne."

Jack's brows jumped upward, "Please, tell me you're joking."

"I was," Phryne grinned, "but now that you make that face…"

"I don't suppose it would be wise to tell both she and Mr Butler the truth," he evaded with ease as he pulled at his lapels and felt the tautness at his shoulders. Before long, Phryne was back invading his personal space.

"He'll have to take the shoulders out a little," she muttered in passing, somewhat appreciatively Jack thought, which only served to make him want to loosen his tie as she placed a hand on his shoulder and attempted to determine by _how much_. "I think it might well be unavoidable," she referred now to his earlier query, "I trust them both, though I had hoped to keep the circle as small as possible. If we do, I'd suggest we keep up the ruse until we're free and clear of those who might be anxious to know, for Dot's sake at least."

"That's likely to mean waiting until we're aboard the ship," he reasoned, hitching a little as she gave up the guesswork and slipped a hand beneath the confines of the jacket to determine _exactly_ where his shoulder ended.

"I'm aware," Phryne's eyes met his with a brief flicker of amusement before she continued with the arguably grave discussion, "but then it's either telling Dot the reason for leaving her behind and having her here alone and dealing with the secret, or informing her later," she said as she continued her exploration.

"Or not at all," Jack supplied the third possibility, which Phryne shot down with a glance, disliking intently the thought of dismissing Dot without explanation, even to protect her. Her hand slipped down to his ribcage, feeling the hug of the tailoring to his waist. His sudden breath in was almost inaudible as he subtly reached in to collect her wandering fingers, pulling at her wrist to remove them from the intimate corners beneath his jacket as he continued, "At least with the first, she could still choose to come, and the decision would be _hers_ to make."

Phryne looked up at him, pausing with her wrist still in his grasp as she considered his words and the tone that rested within them. This was still about Monday's discussion with the Premier. She stood quietly, just looking at him for a moment, and Jack found himself having to deal with unconventional nearness in addition to the usual French perfume. It was a battle quite narrowly won.

Phryne finally acquiesced, stepping back and taking her hands with her, "I'll tell her this evening."

"I think it would be best," he said, feeling the cool of her sudden absence. She nodded with her back turned, retrieving a piece of paper to write down some measurements.

"Now," she turned back to him, a tape measure unravelling neatly from one hand as the drop in temperature was quickly ushered away by new mischief, "why don't we check the fit of those trousers?"

If the devil could be contained in such a face, Jack had seen it.

xXx

The _Principessa Giovanna _seemed an apt sort of name for a ship bound to carry Miss Fisher to Italy. Her neat little bow and petite frame were exactly the sort of sleek elegance that had come to be expected of the Lloyd Sabaudo line. With the opening of the Italy - Australia route, from Genoa to Fremantle, on to Melbourne and then Sydney and back again, it had become a staple in the maritime world and a well-respected one. Combining the charm of the latest Italian design with fine-dining and Continental service, it had become the premier line for expatriate travellers.

Phryne had been thoroughly delighted by the darling thing, its singular funnel giving it a sense of discreet privacy that made her feel all the world like it had been built especially for her. Considering its size, Jack had come to a similar conclusion, if for entirely different reasoning. It would be impossible for a single passenger to hide any secrets at all on such a comparatively small vessel, a truth which he was sure would suit Phryne intolerably well. It had crossed his mind - only as fleetingly as he had allowed it - that being contained with a Lady Detective for a period of thirty-five days in a relatively confined space might yield some frightfully interesting results. He was not inclined to believe that Phryne would be overly diverted with quite that much Shuffleboard, so he sincerely hoped that none aboard were easily offended by scrutiny.

That they themselves had never been forced into each other's company for an extended or regular timeframe had also crossed his mind, and slightly more pertinently. It worked, their little unspoken arrangement - he moving steadily along with his ways and Miss Fisher whisking in and out of the lines with her usual flamboyance. As much as he had been reluctant to admit it, their repartee seemingly requiring his disapproval, they worked well together, efficiently. The cases that saw her eager mind in action - and her flexibility with the rules, he dared to add - were resolved thoroughly and quickly. He wondered now if, by changing the formula, the were tempting the boundaries of their success. It was hard to know exactly what effect such a volatile chemical as Miss Phryne Fisher might _have_ on extended contact. All the more uncertain to know just how _he _might fare with time and limited space as the catalyst.

He wished, suddenly, that he owned a pair of safety goggles.

The loading had already been an experience, the tally of trunks to be settled in the cargo hold having reached an incredible _four_, in addition to two cabin trunks, a suitcase and a twin-pair of valises that were hurried up the gangplank to make the arrival on board all the more comfortable. Dr Macmillan, who had naturally come along to see her friend off and had been present at her Melbourne arrival, had commented - much to Jack's disbelief - that the total baggage was a remarkable sign of _restraint_. Phryne had almost crowed at the look on Jack's face when she'd said so.

She had trusted Cec and Bert with seeing that everything was properly undertaken and the pair had done a fine job, as expected. Even now, Bert was overseeing the _remainder_ of the job to see that no carelessness resulted in a last-minute mishap that might inconvenience the party. With trunks now safely aboard and intentions so close to being realised, it was time for a stream of goodbyes. Cec predictably showed more emotion than was to be expected of man with a reputation for being quite so _blokish_; despite his few words, Phryne knew well that much feeling lived within him. Mac uttered her departing well-wishing with bright wit enough for all of them, and Dot bid farewell to her constable with all the innocent charm of their connection, their earlier discomfort seemingly lost in the adventure and the promise of her return, and giving way to a very _brazen _stolenkiss.

Phryne had noted that Constable Collins had blushed just as heartily as his sweetheart.

Thus, all that kept them from making their way from Melbourne's shores was set aside and they ascended the gangplank with the mix of emotions that must come with any voyage, never mind one so thoroughly complicated in its purpose. Their spectators did not make a meal of the moment and were soon heading off, only Cec remaining behind to wait for Bert, who had managed to entangle himself in the final loading of a series of very large crates - cargo bound for Genoa to offset the cost of the journey. It all seemed somewhat idyllic in its simplicity, and it didn't suit Jack's mind at all.

He was on edge, and thoroughly on his guard as a result and something sat peculiarly about everything that had pounced upon him in the last week. As he stood next to Phryne on deck, her own curiosity about the loading overcoming her desire to settle down to the Lloyd Sabaudo sandwiches she had heard so much about, he watched every face and shade that passed by them on the dock below. What he was expecting to see on a Melbourne dock, he had no idea. He tried to remind himself that they were not even approaching enemy territory yet. In fact, there was no true _enemy_ to speak of. This was not like the first time he had left these shores for Europe, it was a matter of discretion only, they were not waging war - and yet his gut held taught as he considered the presence beside him of red and cream linens and chiffon. Her parasol danced on the edge of hands thoroughly diverted by the adventure, and all that Jack could think was that he had been shuffled along on this mission because the Premier had not wanted her to go alone.

Why?

Suddenly, a rousing crack shot up from the wharf and every instinct seized as voices raised in panic all around the four wharfies - and Bert - and their ongoing little operation. It took a moment for Jack to focus on this new development, his mind so fixed on observation, but the sound of Phryne's voice soon brought him to it.

"Jack, the support rope!"

A terrible creaking had begun and from their vantage point, it was all too easy to see that it was the horrible straining of the rope, which held the remaining crates aloft. Strand by fraying strand, the weight was becoming too much and crewmen aboard were waving violently at those helping below as the crates swayed menacingly. None on the dock, however, seemed able to make sense of the instructions in the buzz that had arisen from the remaining crowds waiting to see the boat off, and were intent on trying to regain control of the moving cargo. They pulled on the ropes used to pulley them aboard and Jack found himself crossing the deck to call down at them.

"Clear the way!" he bellowed, his familiar and authoritative voice capturing Bert's attention and alerting him to a problem.

But it was too late.

With yet another crack and a terrifying whooshing sound that resembled the wings of a descending dragon, the lift collapsed with a mighty crash to the dock, sending contents and wharfies flying about in all directions in escape.

"Bert!" Phryne yelled as she lurched forward, taking her grip on the gunwale. Horrified, she noted the hundreds of shards of wood that had splintered about the wharf with the sickening crack of shattering crates, and she searched in earnest for any sign of her friend. The rest of the cargo was wreckage, already looking derelict, though it had been so recently packed. Tin cans of some industrial product had bled all over the boards and covered the space that had been below. She felt her stomach flip. Jack was at her side within seconds, his own dark eyes performing the same search even as the dust settled. He could spy a man helping his friend to his feet - apparently uninjured - but there was no sign at all of Bert. Phryne's gloved hand suddenly seized his as she paled. "_Bert_!" she cried again.

Where _was_ he?

They stood in motionless dread, unable to do anything to make their friend reappear. Jack held his breath as he had a thousand times in the trenches, and more recently with the pointing of so many guns at a certain lady. It was impossible to describe the relief, then, to hear uproarious cursing coming from just behind the accident as Bert finally emerged, covered in saw dust and ripping into the other dock-hand with all the force of an angry bear. Phryne brought her hand up to her chest in relief, the rush of breath she let out brushing warmly across Jack's cheek and neck as she turned her head to murmur an expletive of her own and release the sudden shock. "For Heaven's sake," she managed shortly after, "it's remarkable what some men will skimp on, just to save a quick buck. The wharf owner should be arrested for supplying worn rope! He could have been killed!"

Jack was not quite so convinced. He knew the owners at the wharf kept a particular eye on ships like the _Principessa Giovanna_, it was unlikely that a worn rope would be anywhere near this loading. His general lack of ease grew more insistent by the second and his senses remained piqued. It felt wrong. _Something _felt wrong_. _While Phryne was the more intuitive of the pair - or indeed simply the one more willing to _trust_ such intuition to - Jack had not arrived where he was by ignoring his senses. It was certainly not what had returned him from the war. As it was, however, he had nothing further to pursue his enquiry and the ship was leaving in a matter of minutes.

"Are you all right, Bert?" Phryne's voice carried across the gangplank, drawing Jack's thoughts back to the present. The cabbie merely turned with his hat in hand and lifted a wave of good-health to his employer, dismissing her fears even as his face thundered at the man across from him. Seeing that he was all well, Phryne relaxed against her support and was immediately thankful that none of _her_ trunks had been involved. It could be quite the way to start the trip, having her things strewn all across port. She waved her final farewell to him and was quite ready to be on her way.

"Is everything all right, Miss? I heard a commotion," Dot appeared from below decks, where she had already been assisting Mr Butler in setting up Phryne's cabin.

"Yes, quite. Thank you, Dot. A little trouble with the loading is all," Phryne assured her companion, her own panic from but a moment before completely lost to the wind at the sight of a more vulnerable creature. Jack noted the change and smiled at Dot.

"Some untrustworthy rope and a few crates that will no longer be making the journey to Fremantle," he explained further, without raising any concern. Dot simply nodded, her face calming almost immediately at their mutual assurances. How nice it must be, Jack thought, to take someone so completely at their word. He turned back to Phryne, who seemed to have lost all enthusiasm for the deck and was holding her parasol over her shoulder as though it had grown quite heavy. "Perhaps it is time to make note of our living quarters and leave the dock work to the wharfies?"

"Assuming they don't need proper representation in the event of employer negligence," Phryne verbalised her outrage with a slight pout and a very brief flicker of her brows at the opportunity to tease Jack over his use of the word 'our'.

Intriguingly, she let him be.

"Hadn't we better wait for Mr Agostini?" Dot enquired dutifully.

Jack halted.

"Mr Agostini… will no longer be joining us, Dot," Phryne offered carefully, as though that had not been the plan all along and she was thoroughly disappointed as she refused to look at Jack. Had they not agreed to tell Dot the truth before they'd even set foot on the ship? "He has been overwhelmed by a sudden influx of new business and simply could not be away," Phryne continued to lie prettily, and _Jack_ was overwhelmed by a familiar frustration blossoming in his chest as he realised she must have disregarded what he had said for the hundredth time. He ducked his head a little as she went on, "He has promised, however, to make it up to us with the very generous offer of his apartments, which I hear are deliciously close to the Fontana di Trevi."

As though that answered all their cares, she made a collected and stylishly well-honed strut for the bulkhead hatch that would lead them below decks and away at last.

xXx

A/N: _And off we go! Please review if you have a moment, I__'__d still like to hear your thoughts and comments. The next chapter is likely to be a praise-piece on the wonders of the Suez Canal. :P _


	3. Chapter 3 - A Struggle at the Suez

_A/N: So many apologies for the wait! Had a number of developments in the past few weeks that I__'__ve had to train my focus on, including a new job! So, time__'__s been a little less available. The following chapter is only a partial expression of the voyage between Australia and Italy, and while it holds together in narrative, there are events that occur onboard which are only covered in passing, and will be more thoroughly explored in a new upcoming companion fic called __'__Anchors Aweigh__'__! Until then, __'__Onwards, to Rome!__'_

xXx

"And is this your idea of keeping Miss Williams informed?" Jack's voice was hoarse in whisper and clipped as soon as they were alone in Phryne's cabin. Dot had shuffled briefly off to assist Mr Butler with the remaining luggage that housed the Inspector's new wardrobe, but she would be back momentarily, and Jack absolutely would not miss his moment. As he took a hold of Phryne's elbow in the small cabin parlour set up for visitors and so neatly arranged in the room adjoining her bedroom, she knew she had cut this one close to the bone. Then, was it not always that way between them? Pushing and pulling and prodding until something gave or ignited?

On this occasion, it appeared to be his temper, and although it was never her preferred outcome, it would be a lie to say that it did not send a flicker of a thrill through her whenever he responded in a manner that was so very much the opposite of his calm collectedness. It sounded crass under the circumstance, almost cruel as she subconsciously catalogued the shiver of his grasp on her, and it had certainly never been her express intention. Every action of hers that seemed to arouse his ire saw that response as purely and unfortunately incidental, but when it happened, she would not deny its effect on her.

"Why not call it a benevolent deception," she offered lightly in response, her defence still heartily in place at being questioned and her humour a standard tactic for diverting the seriousness of an allegation against her.

"And who was the arbiter of that definition?" he said, refusing to capitulate to it, or her. He had pulled her close, so as not to be overheard, but he was as gentle as ever he was when he held her in those unexpected and yet purposeful moments.

It was only his voice that was hard as the hull that held them.

"I was," she fired back, as though to establish her right to manage the whole thing. It was _her_ affair, after all. This was not an investigation in the hands of the Victorian Constabulary, she was not trespassing this time; it was he who was the guest, however compelled he had been. His jaw tightened at her defiance and he kept his gaze as rigid as his argument. Phryne did not remove herself from his hold immediately, an indicator of what was to come as she softened her tone. "You know as well as I do, Jack, that on assignments like these, the ones who suffer in event of catastrophe are the ones who know the_ truth;_" she laid it out plainly for him, "the less Dot knows, the safer she is. I would rather she were an innocent dupe than a culpable conspirator."

"And you think the black shirts are going to be as distinguishing as they are forgiving, if they discover us?" he pressed her. There was a lingering silence then. Phryne had no answer for him, just as she had not had one for herself the night before, while she had lain awake and considered and reconsidered waking Dot. She wanted to state facts at him: _It__'__s a matter of the law. They__'__ll have no charge on which to hold her. We__'__ll never be discovered. _

She said nothing.

"What were you planning on saying about my tagging along?" he drove the point home, raising Phryne's hackles instantly.

"I'm an improvisor, _Inspector_," she defended, leaning on his title with all the effort she spared in not actually pushing him away, "how else does one survive the snake pit that is London Society?"

"An _improvisor_?!" he hissed, returning her gesture of formality with the next, "This isn't exactly dinner conversation, _Miss Fisher._"

"And that's your _expert opinion_ on dinner conversation, is it?" she narrowed her eyes immediately, tilting her head in sarcastic query as the air of high offence brewed.

"_Phryne_ -"

"I will _cross _the bridge when I _get to it_, Jack," she cut out at him, punctuating it with the sharp removal of her arm from his grip, "I assure you, I have this _well under control_."

"If you believe that, then you're -" he caught himself, but only briefly. "For all the things I've thought about you, Phryne Fisher, I never once took you for an _idiot_," he stated bluntly. It crossed a mark and Phryne's eyes flashed red, even as he continued, "This isn't your parlour, or some suburban crime scene. This isn't a _hobby _anymore!"

"A _hobby?_" she cut back at him in black anger, instant hurt blossoming, "If you think for a moment that I haven't considered the ramifications of this endeavour over and again from every angle, then you are sorely mistaken and -" She breathed in, to avoid saying what she desperately wanted to regarding her disappointment at his apparent opinion of her. It was a moot point and far too revealing. "If you think that my priority in this is anything other than Dot's perfect safety, then I have seriously overestimated our partnership."

Jack's jaw fused shut, her last cutting straight through the rest of his righteous anger. He could see Janey in her eyes. His fingers reached for her of their own accord. She burned them back with one glance. He reigned himself in.

"She needs to know, Phryne. Tell her," he finally responded, straining over it and putting his concern over as calmly as he could manage. "Tell her, or I will."

"Is there anyth -," came a familiar voice, as though it knew the conversation being had surrounded it. Dot paled when she realised that she had stepped in on something unexpected, "Oh, forgive me, Inspector, I didn't realise - I'll come back later."

"What is it, Dot?" Phryne asked, allowing the interruption as though to make a point.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Miss," she ducked her head low and folded her hands neatly in front of her, upending the flow of argument between them, "I just wanted to see if you needed anything further before I headed down to the servants' corridor."

"I thought we'd settled that you would have the room adjacent to mine?" Phryne interjected, disliking intently the tradition which so enforced the class separation at sea, "If we're to spend a month at sea, I will absolutely not have you _banished _below decks." She made it sound rather as though they were facing the dreaded Middle Passage, bound for a cotton plantation in America rather than a tour of the Mediterranean.

"I will," Dot assured her, not wishing to enter back into the argument that had begun with her having her own cabin - a mortifying thought - and trying to settle the matter, "but I'd still like to introduce myself to the others." She said nothing of the fact that her sleeping arrangements would arouse suspicion and, most likely, a swathe of unkindness if she did not clarify some of the details and assure the others in service that she did not think the servants' corridor beneath her.

She had already resolved - God forgive her - to explain that her lady preferred her close and on call through the night, rather than suggest that she had been 'rescued' from their combined position.

There was silence, which was certainly not the usual modus operandi of her employer and, as Dot looked up, she did not miss the fleeting glance between her ladyship and the Inspector - full of warning, demand and not an insignificant amount of defiance. Dot had still not had the chance to get anywhere beyond wondering at the Inspector's presence aboard the _Principessa Giovanna, _and it was thoroughly impertinent to ask, even when she had been folding his shirts. It did seem odd, however, that he did not have quite the same problems with leaving Melbourne behind as Hugh did. It was definitely curious, but not nearly so curious as Miss Fisher's possible reasoning for allowing him - encouraging him? - to come along.

"Of course," Phryne finally cleared the space. Not noticing the lingering hesitation in Miss Fisher's voice and feeling that that was the end of her query, Dot made to turn back towards the door and exit when, "Dot?"

"Yes, Miss?" she turned abruptly back. Had there been something else? It was impossible not to take note of the Inspector's fiercely stern look now.

"Sit down a moment, will you?"

Dot looked uneasily about her. As much as she had abandoned her training with Miss Fisher, it still ruffled her when the woman broke from protocol, especially when she had interrupted a conversation that had sounded far from amiable and the tension of it still hung so thickly in the air. She looked uncertainly into pert blue eyes. Phryne gestured towards one of the armchairs, her body language inviting despite the stiffness in her demeanour, which seemed to emanate from the Inspector like electricity. Her impatience was clear, but Dot knew better than to think her employer was upset with her about something in this instance, any roughness in her now was a remnant. Dot looked nervously at the Inspector, feeling thoroughly uncomfortable taking a seat when both of the others still stood. Miss Fisher would not be dissuaded, however, and the urgency felt clear as Dot took up a place in the very edge of the armchair nearest her.

"Would you be so kind, Inspector, as to call for Mr Butler?"

xXx

"Mr Jack Ridgeway," Mr Butler tried his tongue around Jack's allotted pseudonym, cataloguing the entirety of the affair in his careful way.

"I suggested Oliver. I thought it had a slightly more poetic ring," with appeasement in the air, Phryne was back to a semblance of her usual good humour as she leaned against the mantel of the fireplace, which was really an architectural blank that hid an electric heater, considering the only functional fireplace was in the First Class Smoking Room. "The Inspector, however, thought it best to stick to his Christian name. He doesn't want to be searching the room for Oliver every time someone calls out to him. Naturally, he'll be on a first name basis with _everyone_."

"Everyone who matters," Jack cut quickly back, his own frustration spent, now that he had confronted her to a constructive end, "and it will significantly lessen the chance of a slip-up."

"That depends entirely on the kind of slip-up," Phryne muttered quietly, inferring what she would about his being on first-name bases with _everyone who mattered_.

"And nobody knows except for the four of us in this room?" Dot tested meekly.

"And the Chief Commissioner, and the Premier, of course," Phryne answered, determined to be bluntly honest now that Jack had asked for it. There was a stunned silence to follow and the look of serious consideration on the faces of one half of the little band was enough to make Phryne add, a little more gently, "I'm happy to send you both back on the next available ship after we dock in Fremantle, should you so wish. There's no harm done at all in taking a little excursion to Western Australia."

She thought on that a moment, her eyes reaching upward to reconsider.

"Well, no _irreparable harm_. I'm sure the sandgropers have their own unique charms," she could not help the slight twitch of her cheek, "at least it's not Tasmania." The room was not inclined to humour, not even the kind so loyal to their own state. It was Mr Butler who responded first, his gaze reaching up to meet Miss Fisher's joke with all the seriousness her care deserved, but it was Dot that dared to speak. Her voice held that stiff resolution that Phryne had so come to admire in their time together.

"And send you two off to Italy alone?" it was motherly, sure of itself, "not on your life." Phryne looked down from her vantage point and could not help the glow of pride that beamed through her emerging smile.

"Right she is," added Mr Butler, to affirm his own position in the party, "and I'm hardly about to let Mr _Ridgeway_ present to 'everyone who matters' without being properly turned down. For all intents and purposes, I think it imperative that he have the proper services of a fully-trained valet."

Jack paled.

"I don't think -"

"A marvellous idea, Mr Butler!" Phryne grinned, "After all, I wouldn't even know where to begin with those cufflinks."

How she could make cufflinks flirtatious, let alone with such a blatant _lie_, Jack did not know. He was much more concerned, however, about this new development, which involved a _second_ _person _bent on dressing him, or _undressing_ him as the case may be. "I believe I have been dressing myself for the better part of my life," he objected, his small smile indicating his discomfort and certainly the passing of his earlier anger, "I can get along just fine on my own."

"Not in Italy, sir," Mr Butler added with all the politeness of his inestimable experience. Jack looked down at him in surprise, feeling very slightly like he had something to prove at the doubt that seemed to permeate about his abilities in the area of his dress. He found himself unable to answer the man's forthright expression, however, and instead merely stared him down with a sense of disloyalty. "In Italy, a valet is a matter of principle," Mr Butler responded in kind.

Jack suddenly wished Collins were with him to even out the numbers.

"Right, well," he deferred to the importance of the mission, "of course, if you think it best."

"You'll not be sorry, Jack," Phryne interjected, "Mr Butler knows exactly what he's about."

"I'm sure he does," Jack answered, still unsure about the proposition. With the party truly gathered, however, he was comforted to know that they would all be in it together; the paradox of camaraderie not lost on him as his protective side met the strange comfort.

The veracity of Phryne's confidence in Mr Butler's abilities, however, was not to be proven, even as the ship drew further away from Melbourne and the evening's activities drew intimidatingly nearer. The dinner on the first night of a voyage was always an informal affair amongst the upper crust, and none changed from the light travel wear that had been adopted for the boarding, leaving Jack quite happily amongst them, even as he felt the pressure of truly assuming his identity as Mr Ridgeway for the first time. He was glad not to be alone in the endeavour, working his way neatly through the expectations of the crowd by the grace of a mind more informed than his own about such things, and infinitely prettier - especially as this crowd originated largely from Australia and could be considered _acquainted_ with Melbourne Society.

With Phryne on his arm, he could breathe a little easier. Well, in one way at least.

"The Ridgeways?" chimed in an ageing socialite, Mrs Hillock, who wore far too heavy a shade of rouge, "are they not of mining magnate fame?"

"Yes, that's right," Phryne leapt aboard that tack, "Mr Ridgeway's father has extensive interests in the mining industry in Western Australia, but his own interest has been piqued by the emerging import market in Melbourne of late."

"I'd wager that's been the case for half of you," beamed Colonel Pickford, a British Officer amongst the party on his way home from paying a long-overdue visit to the Antipodes, and of a countenance so rosy, Phryne almost doubted it had anything to do with copious amounts of whiskey he seemed bent on consuming.

"Quite," added Mr Hillock, who shared his wife's obvious sort of distaste at the thought of inherited money being utilised in something so uncivilised as _industry, __"_though not the more responsible half, I am sure_.__"_

It was for the better, really, since it was now unlikely that any in the party would _ask_ Jack about it. By nestling him neatly between the more innovative of the landed gentry and the upper class of _true _distinction she all but guaranteed him a kind of precious anonymity. He offered her a quick sidelong glance, noting the tone and flicking his brows upward to express precisely what he thought of that snobbery. Phryne's lip curled to one side, feeling fully impressed with herself for having avoided the need to share such jokes with _Richard Armstrong - _who would be more likely to _agree_ than shoot her almost conspiratorially humorous opinions. She only wished she could drag Jack along to the bevy of other social engagements that involved her either holding her tongue to the point of bleeding the life out of it, or saying something just shocking enough to silence the madness while she ate.

As of this moment, however, they had to make an impression and Phryne would be damned if it was not the perfect one.

"Yes, well, I am sure I can count on one of you fine gentlemen to take Mr Ridgeway under your wing after dinner and teach him the art of _idle chatter_," it was just pert enough to be cheeky above being insolent and the sight of her teasing smile alongside it gave rise to a few returned. In contrast, however, Jack's smile all but disappeared completely at being abandoned to this lot, even if it was only after dinner.

They would laugh about it later, she was certain, but his face now bore the expression of the endearingly panicked.

"Naturally!" cried Colonel Pickford, leaning forward at the waist as though about to tell a secret, despite the volume of his voice, "Provided he knows his brandy, I can't say that we'll have any trouble at all teaching the lad to _relax_." A polite patter chuckled around the circle, and Phryne favoured him with a lean of her own, putting a gloved hand to the forearm that held up his current drink as she picked her ally in the mob.

"Don't loosen him up too much, Colonel," she said, "I have to return him to his mother _exactly_ the way that I found him." The patter lifted to a laugh in earnest and all but Mrs Hillock seemed to feel a little better about a month at sea with the delightful creature who dared a little impertinence.

Jack watched with interest at the way Phryne navigated the company, her hand subtle and yet undeniably in command of the situation. It was rather like battle strategy, he mused; she was all careful calculations and perfectly positioned moments. While she could not keep Mrs Hillock on side and cater to the rest, he had no doubt that the indomitable Miss Fisher would work her way round to it when the conditions were favourable - though keeping the older woman on side at all seemed a feat enough for a magician.

Dinner was a slight affair, nothing too heavy on the stomach, so as to avoid any further discomfort in the adjustment to the occasional pitching of the bow. It was a strange reality that, despite the fact that the movement of the ship was all but unnoticeable, the body seemed to _know_ that it was not where it ought to be. Legs would adapt soon enough, but it was this kind of care that made the Lloyd-Sabaudo Line what it was. Jack kept a steady eye on proceedings, his habit of constant vigilance not at all discouraged by the presence of _salade russe. _Phryne's dominion over the table continued, her laugh - seated uncomfortably across from him as opposed to next to him, as he had assumed it would be - rising every now and then to greet one or other anecdote. While he had dined with her on occasion, and borne witness to the extremities of her life in fleeting pictures that seemed to spin about like a gyroscope, it was something else altogether to be a part of the life that he had almost forgotten she lead aside from their meetings over Melbourne's Murdered.

This would be the intrigue of this new ground, he knew. Four weeks ensconced with her aboard the ship and Heaven knew how long after that in the mythical surrounds of Rome? He was about to _meet_ Miss Fisher - not as he had known her, nor as he had imagined her - which he undoubtedly had - but as she was. She would no longer be a part, but a whole, and the wild strategy of the crime scene and the warm, vulnerable intimacy of the parlour would have context.

"… is positively _ghastly_, don't you agree, Mr Ridgeway?" Mrs Hillock's face was so expectant, Jack thought she might take to the Rack for answers if she did not get them.

"I'm sorry?" he grasped at the nothing with which he had been left. The High Inquisitor was not impressed.

"I said this business with the Mafia is simply awful, is it not?" she followed his distraction and found - rather unsurprisingly, really - the scintillating Miss Fisher at the end of it. This only seemed to make her angrier still.

"Yes," Jack agreed solemnly, unsure to which _'__business__' _she was referring, but equally unwilling to disagree with her when it could be avoided. His singular word answer did not appease, and Mrs Hillock's brow raised as she inspected him without reserve.

"So your primary estate is in Western Australia?" she questioned as she took to her glass of wine with disdain, before training her sharp blue eyes on him. They seemed to wonder what he would do without his dazzling friend to fill each gap in his social graces. Jack felt that pressure, remembering suddenly Phryne's earlier cutting assault on his conversational talents. The thought was enough to compel him to action.

"Devon, actually," he countered, lifting his own glass rather like a sabre, "my father's family might have lived in orchard country since before William The Conqueror." His smile appeared then, challenging and quick, "My mother put his interest in Australia down as a healthy sense of adventure, or a tiring taste for apple tart, dependent on the company."

Mrs Hillock blinked, "And have_ you_ tired of apple tart?"

"Not at all," he said, "my attachment to these shores has more to do with time than distaste. I have been here since I was a boy, you see."

"In Western Australia," it sounded like an accusation.

"And now Melbourne," he returned, "the import industry has, indeed, been of interest."

"Amongst other things," she slipped in rather idly, for its intended purpose. The way her eyes drew back to Phryne was almost comical, and he did not take her comments personally. The way she clutched her fork suggested she would suspect _any man_ of The Offence. Jack made a mental note to see if Miss Fisher's talents were up to the task of broaching the woman's disapproval. Then, if she did not broach it, she would almost certainly circumvent it, so the situation was really a matter of '_how long__'_ rather than '_if__'_.

"You are very astute, Mrs Hillock," he jested with jovial surprise, "how smart of you to know that I also have a vested interest in _sheep_." She was bound to lodge an objection, whether through her characteristic haughty glance, or through her forthrightness - which had already been impressively on display. Thankfully, Jack was spared her protest, however it was to be delivered,by a sudden exclamation from the head of the table.

"Captain!" called the Colonel, standing to welcome a gentleman impeccably turned out in his uniform, his distinguished figure cut impressively against the lush background of the first class dining room. Phryne noted the sharp Roman features of his homeland and could not help the flicker of a smile at the silver touches that pressed into his jet black hair.

"Colonel," he greeted with perfect politeness, restrained in comparison to the Colonel's bold upstanding pat of his back. He cast his eyes about the table, but was halted from offering any general greeting in favour of being dragged by his coat tails to Phryne's side.

"Captain Allegro, may I present the Honourable Phryne Fisher," the Colonel effused, "positively the most darling creature onboard." Phryne remained unmoved by the labelling, hyperbolic flattery - not particular to her tastes, and certainly taking a back seat to the Captain's bow. He faced her directly, his brown eyes meeting hers with the stability of self assurance. It was a trait she liked to see in a ship captain and, though she was often more moved by energetic youth, she was not immune to his matured confidence.

"Miss Fisher," he said, speaking to her directly rather than about her, as seemed the fashion of lesser men, "welcome aboard. I trust that everything is to your liking? If it is not, do not hesitate to mention my name."

Phryne's lip twitched at what was undoubtedly characteristic Italian arrogance, and the very thing that had compelled her a moment before, threatened to deflate her opinion of him as it crossed the line into potential narcissism. Jack was certain he didn't like it, so it was fortunate or the Captain that he had not finished. The finale to his little speech served as the perfect lifeboat to salvage the situation, "I cannot say, however, that it will be of any _advantage_ to you." His eyes sparkled with self-deprecating humour and a rush of relief flooded through Phryne, alongside her suddenly flirtatious smile; it was always pleasant to be affirmed in an attraction, rather than disappointed.

"Well," she returned, her thoughts flickering over a thousand situations in which calling out his name might be beneficial, "there can certainly be no harm in repeating it."

His smile suggested that he understood her meaning _perfectly_.

Jack caught himself in the midst of the feeling, rather than consciously at the beginning, but the effect was much the same. It was his turn to be holding his fork oddly - though where Mrs Hillock had clasped it with possessive disapproval, his lingered on the tips of his fingers with a sudden wilting recognition. In all his consideration of meeting Miss Fisher in her fullness, it had never crossed his mind that it might be something that he did not like. He was not naïve about her vivacious sexuality, indeed she had never actively striven to keep it a secret from him or anybody, but it had always existed on the periphery of their closeness. He had seen her flirt and beguile, but he had not been required to _stay_ in that place.

Now, there was nowhere else to go.

He had been able to move away, back into real life and the separation of normality and routine. Now, there was nothing but ocean to escape to. It felt wrong to resent it. After all, she had always been perfectly frank with him and he had no right to claim from her the grounds for his resentment. He realised, nonetheless, that in all his keeping a calculated distance, a treacherous thought had taken root without his permission. Being faced with this reality, he was finally forced to confront the fact that whatever flirting she had done in _his_ presence had not, in fact, been exclusively his. He felt like a boy in that admission. Of course it hadn't. He had _known _it hadn't.

And yet dinner seemed somehow less appetising.

xXx

The following evening's dinner was no more successful, the requirement that he present for a formal meal only further entrenching a sense of claustrophobia that Jack had not expected as the day had gone on. He had tried to put the childish sensation away, to dismiss it throughout their interactions, but it had remained and heightened at a lunchtime liaison with the same pepper-haired instigator. Jack was so much Phryne's opposite, that he had come to see himself as structured, orderly in comparison to her whimsy — full of routine and obedience to the rules. It was the very thing that had made him intrigued by the way they pushed and pulled at each other, blurring the lines between them to find a successful middle ground that sometimes had him stepping on the wild side and her treading a little closer to the fine line. This sudden need for space, then, felt oddly foreign. It was not _he _that ought to worry about being fenced in, and yet, that was precisely how he felt.

It had begun, of course, on that first day she had approached him and grown more pertinent with his suspicions on the wharf. The final emerging pressure of the previous evening he refused to concede, since he had spent the better part of their acquaintance denying it was a problem and was not about to change that as they stepped feet first into the furnace that potentially awaited them. His resolve, however, did nothing to stem the continuing knot of discontent within him. Almost overnight, he had become stiff, resistant and he _knew_ Phryne had noticed. How could she not have, with her seemingly inhuman knack for sensitivity?

As he returned to his cabin for the second time, on excuse of tiredness from being at sea, he was in a foul mood if ever he'd been in one and he tried to release the tension by loosening the tie of his tuxedo. It had caused a stir from Miss Fisher that normally would have been dangerously pleasant, but was now only a challenge in light of his fighting the thought that he was merely one amongst many.

His pride was remarkable to him and irksome in equal measure.

He could only conclude that it was stress of the oncoming mission, the unyielding closeness of being at sea that had driven his irritability right up. Everything was an offence and he rationalised it in hopes of disintegrating it under explanation. Tomorrow he would be fine, tomorrow he would be himself, tomorrow he would forget about this mood and -

"Shall I turn down the bed early, sir?"

Jack felt his unease snap into action as his entire body went rigid with fright and he was forced to control clenched fists with burgeoning recognition of Mr Butler about his duties. It was amazing how quickly he could forget their situation, even as he thought about it. The change for dinner had certainly been an education, but finding him now in the one place he had hoped to find sanctuary was another matter altogether.

"Don't worry yourself, Mr Butler," he dismissed in a manner that was meant to be friendly, "I can manage."

"It is my _job_ to worry myself, sir," Mr Butler responded, a smile tugging where it seemed to linger permanently.

"Not tonight," Jack said, fiddling with a cufflink that would not budge until he finally gave up and looked at the other man with a darkness about him, "please."

There was silence.

"Detective-Inspector Robinson - "

"Mr Ridgeway," Jack corrected perfunctorily, tending to the top two buttons of his shirt. Mr Butler's head popped up from the task of laying out a nightshirt, the stern look about his face suggesting that while he was acting as valet, he would certainly not be put off in this instance. Jack was distracted, looking to the floor, his frown so distinctly unsettled, it raised the alarum. Mr Butler stopped what he had been doing. He knew a great deal - invisible men so often do - and he knew beyond a doubt that there was something amiss. Reason had alerted him from the moment the journey had been proposed and, though his suspicions had been confirmed by the earlier meeting between this daring four, he sensed that the true problem still remained, despite the alleviation of the secrets between them all. His first instinct was to talk the man down, just as he had with Dorothy, but seeing him now, he knew it would not work.

Jack Robinson had been a master of himself for far too long. He didn't need any more euphemisms.

Right now, it was a matter of freedom. In their scheme of things, Jack had come to be the responsible one, but that meant nothing in terms of his desire for autonomy. Certainly he followed orders, he kept inside the law like an exorcist taking cover in a ring of salt, but the first hint of losing his command over his life had driven a wedge between this man and his wife. There were reasons why the son-in-law of the Deputy Chief Commissioner kept to field work and an office at City South. There were reasons why his wife subsequently divorced him. Jack Robinson was his own man - a man of strict principle, which aligned itself dutifully to the law - but uncommanded by any lesser institution, or any lesser figure. In that way, the Detective-Inspector and Mr Butler's own employer were very much _alike_.

They had crossed each other as intersecting circles, but they had always held a space of mutual exclusivity. A place where each was commander, which allowed them compromise in the middle. Now that Miss Fisher had absorbed Jack into_ her_ circle, he would not fall into the concentricity that she was used to, and the result was a potentially damaging friction. Jack was already fraying, bristling at the feeling. It was a difficult question, however - without a single permanent answer, to the butler's mind - and, at present, there seemed but one temporary one that might yield a positive outcome.

"She needs you now, more than ever," he said, so quietly it might have been a knife to the back. Jack certainly felt it slide between his ribs.

"I'm sorry?" he challenged, utterly unsettled by the bluntness that had pre-empted absolutely everything.

"You're good for her," he continued, "and it's important."

"I don't know what you- "

"Nonsense," the older man tested the limits of his impertinence, "you do know what I mean, and with respect, I am telling you that she needs you now."

Jack stared at him, both outraged and yet feeling distinctly like Mr Butler had every right to say what he was saying - perhaps it was the tone of voice that gave it such command. It was a strangeness to Jack, so far from everything that he had been thinking about; Miss Fisher did not _need_ anything_. _She had what she _wanted_ and that was that, to her mind at any rate. Jack pulled off his jacket in agitation, but he did not send Mr Butler away. He did not know how to respond otherwise. "She needs boundaries," he finally cut out bitterly, from a place he didn't understand, "but not a person on earth could give them to her."

The scoff was light, almost imperceptible as the other man took the jacket from his hands and placed it on a clothes horse, picking up a brush to properly care for it. "She doesn't need boundaries, Inspector," there was no challenge, "only disaster could come from trying to cage her, and as you have said, she would never allow it."

"Well, if she doesn't make allowances for some, then she's going to get herself _killed_," Jack snapped, shocked again at the anger in his voice, the vulnerability of his honesty, and the damned _stamina_ of his blasted _cufflinks_.

"Oh, she can take care of _those_ troubles with on hand tied behind -"

"Then _what_?" Jack almost burst with the question. Mr butler did not lose his head for a moment. Jack took command of himself in very short measure, "What _does _she need? Why does she need _me_?"

Why can't she leave me _alone? _He seemed to say.

"You're her sure place to land."

It was frighteningly simple: the harbour in the storm, a branch in the flood. Something to be sure of. The thought snuck in and unpinned Jack's frustrations with such ease, it felt unfair. There was a heavy silence as he tried to fight what had been said. After a moment, he dropped his wrist and sighed, acknowledging that if Mr Butler was manipulating him, he was doing a damned near perfect job of it. Whatever he felt for Phryne, he was weak enough to it to feel the compulsion of that need - should it exist - into any action that might meet it. He was fully aware, that his pride treasured the thought. Perhaps it was a futile hope, but it was a powerful one.

"And I must simply endure the rest?" he fought with one last ounce of waning strength.

"I can't answer that for you, sir," Mr Butler returned to formality, having said his piece and thought it enough, "but if you cannot, I would beg you to choose your moment wisely."

Jack took his meaning. If he had wanted to fight this, it was too late to do it now. He knew he could not abandon her to face this endeavour alone, no matter how capable she was in dealing with it. Mr Butler would not press it further, and having been allowed to look after his jacket, at least, he decided not to discourage reconciliation further by sending the man to bed.

"She's on deck, I would wager," he said without guile, neutrally assisting as ever.

"And what if she is?" Jack answered back, his face rigid in his remaining refusal.

"Goodnight, sir," Mr Butler simply said, making his retreat without haste or compromise.

And that, thought Jack, was _that_?

xXx

The day had been greatly subdued, and Phryne could little understand it as she stood on deck after dinner. Her spirits were lifted as high as ever they could be - surrounded by the promise of new delight, new challenge and the intimate closeness of the very people she liked best. The singular regret she possessed in the moonlight was that Mac could not be there to liven the space with a little revolution - a fellow cat amongst the pigeons, so to speak. For all Jack's conspiracy at the dinner table the night before, he was still infinitely _proper_ where Elizabeth was not. In truth, she was not convinced that he was not infinitely _more_ proper than ever he had been. He had not responded at all to her compliments on his dinner attire, not even to confidently accept them as mere compliments and bat her unmistakable undertone aside with his usual charming finesse. It was not at all what she had expected of him. Honestly, she had expected - _hoped for_ - the exact opposite. This was meant to be an adventure, and some part of her was determined to see Jack Robinson adventuring.

She suspected it had to do with the argument of the day before. Though she had been convinced that they had lain their differences to rest, his calmer side returning as they had brought Dot and Mr Butler into their circle and discussed moving forward with the endeavour, it had become apparent on his early retirement to bed that something was not quite as she had pictured it. As he had done the same _this_ evening, she had only grown increasingly suspicious. She hugged the chill air to her as she tried to resolve the conundrum, allowing everything else that was onboard, or to come, to fade into the background of this more pertinent concern.

The moon was high by the time Jack wondered out to the same sanctuary, the air still so fresh as to prod at his nostrils and chest. He tried to forget about the instinct that had pulled him from his discussion with Mr Butler to this place, out in the open. He still wore the remnants of dinner, had not taken the rest of the task on as he had promised he would, his loose tie and buttons the only sign that he had contemplated going to bed at all. The errand felt foolish, since it was based merely on conjecture and the possibilities of what Phryne Fisher might be doing with her late night hours were endless.

It was a surprise, then, that conjecture followed through.

He saw her perched - her heels having found the first rung of the railing - on the curve of the bow, peering fearlessly out into the blackness. She was like a water nymph, to him who had no knowledge of the mishap of her name, suspended in her whites with her scarf escaping into the breeze. He stopped instantly to consider her then, as though he were examining a painting that stretched beyond the canvass into real life. Her hair flickered vaguely as she took in the night; she was suddenly something surreal. It was the moon, he reasoned, their situation, which drew him on to a feeling that standing there was like standing over the burrow, or near the looking glass. The little fiction of her parlour that had led him here was but the beginning as this White Rabbit rushed passed him in a whirlwind of dreams, as yet unrealised. He guessed that the dream had, in fact, begun a great deal earlier, in amongst the tiles of a dead man's washroom, but as his hands found the pockets of his trousers, he knew that _here_ it began in earnest.

"The view really is much better from up here, Jack," she spoke, as though he had made a decision to bring her to life. She did not even turn to look back at him.

"I don't know that it is," he returned in admiration of her, his ease and intended idle flirtation turning to seriousness as soon as it was said. He knew that the offering would cross them back into step and he did it with conscious effort, after what had been said about choice and importance and _need_.

He did it for her.

Phryne took a hold of the rail and turned to fix him with a look of pure delight. There flickered a hope that her Inspector had returned.

"I think the sea's on my side on this one," she grinned, "just come and look at the way it reflects the moon."

"If it reflects the moon," he felt a grip in his gut as he was about to say the next, it was reckless, "it's only because you asked it to."

Phryne did not move but for the shadow of a smile, which appeared in soft thanks as she idly remembered a quotation from Shakespeare on a stage that seemed suddenly very far away.

Jack cleared his throat.

"I would be careful of all those silks," he diverted, approaching and leaning tentatively to glance over the railing into the black sea beyond. Phryne's eyes flickered with mirth.

"Why don't you come up and rescue me?" she challenged, her confidence defying the very thought. Really, with that tuxedo as it was, it could hardly be helped. He glanced up at her, his expression unreadable. She glanced right back for a moment that could only be filled with consideration, and soon enough he put his hand to the rail and stepped up next to her. The height was heady, but the churning cold cleared the haze and Jack could not conceal the refreshment he suddenly felt. "Exhilarating, isn't it?" she pressed him, closing her eyes and turning her face back to the oncoming rush of air.

He looked only at her for a moment and then gave in to her insistence, her whim. The breeze streamed through his hair and sought out the hollow of his neck, the cluttered corners of his mind. He breathed deeply, aware of the warmth of her hand on the rail inches from his. "You have me there," he finally acknowledged. A beat passed, and soon he felt her gaze on him again and could not help but face her.

"So, am I forgiven?" her eyes searched his face for assurance, even as her smile tilted in the cheek of her belief that she did not necessarily need forgiveness. Jack watched her for a moment, taking in the dark blue hues that surrounded them, which seemed to settle into the contours of her face with a softened smudge before they descended into other contours that must escape his notice, or risk his ruin.

He wondered briefly for which offence she queried forgiveness. His mind was awash with the offences that he had taken, but as he confronted the earnestness of her question, he found them all wanting, meaningless and petty. She had never promised him anything, so to take it and punish her was a crime suddenly disgusting to him. There was only one thing, one charge that he could lay at her feet that might hold water. So, he turned his honesty on her and heaped the concerns and difficulties he was feeling into the single obvious thing that stood between them. His earlier heated words returned to him. They would argue again, he was sure, but for now they could set it all aside and start again.

"Just promise me you'll lay as low as you possibly can," he offered by way of middle ground, for if she promised to at least try and avoid risk to them all, and especially herself, then he could admire again the quick-thinking mind that had wrought as much success for them as it had trouble.

xXx

Phryne did promise it - with an unabashed jab at his double entendre - and she kept that promise as far as she was able._ She _could not be held accountable, after all, for the fact that the voyage did not go with all the tedium expected of weeks of good behaviour. The death of a ladies maid was hardly a variable she could control, let alone ignore and she had said as much when Jack had urged her not to get involved. That the ship-board Master at Arms had been a complete incompetent had only provided the buoyancy to her deviating dingy, already afloat. Ever compelled by what they seemed to do best, it had not taken too long before she _and Jack_ put the matter to rest, albeit with some difficulty to explain not one peculiar knack for investigation, but _two_.

In fact, it felt rather like the blink of an eye before they made their steady approach to what was undoubtedly a highlight to which Phryne had looked forward right on their leaving Melbourne. A magnificent feat of engineering, and a testament to mankind's determination - and, perhaps, savage arrogance - the Suez Canal was a fascination of the highest order and Phryne had all but hustled the party up on decks to witness a great portion of their passage into the Mediterranean. With its three main ports at Suez, Ismaïlia and Said, and two later additions at Tewfik and Fuad, the Canal had come a long way since its early development in 1860. These were no longer mere stopping points to mark the journey, simply noting the wind speeds and shifts in the Canal bed, but bustling towns, and strategic outposts for the supply of water to Cairo and other parts of the Egyptian Sultanate through the Great Bitter Lake. The British still maintained a heavy presence after the Treaty of 1922, with Port Fuad marking a pivotal point on the Asiatic side of the Canal and the site of the proposed Palestine railway.

Colonel Pickford had been game enough to share with them the tensions the whole business was causing. Well, he'd been game enough to share them with _the delightful Miss Fisher_. It really _had_ been a very good night for that third glass of whiskey, after all.

It seemed that the local population was growing increasingly resistant to the presence of so much _industry_ in their region, considering that a large portion of the proceeds from that industry were spirited away by the very companies that were establishing them on very shoddy agreements with the landowners. The result had been a steady increase of threats and a few violent outbreaks, most pertinently at Port Ismaïlia. The British had stationed a small force there to keep the peace, but the diplomacy of such an endeavour was growing very delicate very quickly. Though she kept this thought from the Colonel, who seemed a great deal worried by the circumstance and particularly about the people who would suffer were access to water not controlled so amicably as it was under the present arrangement, Phryne wondered whether the people of the Suez did not have the right to bear the fruits of their land.

All was peaceful for their, crossing, however, and although Phryne would much rather they had been on a smaller vessel, closer to the ground and the intricate business of the crossing, they had been privy to some _marvellous_ views of the desert as it stretched away toward the horizon. The sun setting over The Great Bitter Lake had almost been enough to allow Jack to _relax_ after the strange affairs onboard and the increasing nearness of Rome. He had stood on the deck with Phryne - as had become a sort of habit for them, almost a replacement for drinks in her drawing room - and had reflected on the manner in which the sun turned the sand almost to purple.

The voyage had been a surprisingly reflective one for Jack, once he had put aside the complications of Phryne and a murder aboard. The consideration of such a long journey had brought back a swarm of memories from the last time he had travelled so far from home, though the conditions then had not been quite so comfortable. That they were steadily drawing nearer to the continent on which he had lost so many around him could not be ignored, even in amongst the rest of it, and visions of the War were everywhere. He sensed that Phryne felt it too, but was aware that she had spent much more time abroad, after the killing had ended, than he had. She had cleansed her memories of many things, in a way, and he had avoided bringing it up directly.

It all seemed so very far away in the lost land of the Suez, anyway, like nothing at all was real and the desert stretched on to Infinity instead of large cities, and modernisation, and war. It struck him that, while this was the very centre of burgeoning greatness, it was birthed in an air of surreality. On arriving at Port Said, Dot also expressed great surprise at the sheer rural pleasantry of the Canal and particularly its accompanying towns. Her eyes were bright with it as she reflected on their surroundings to the other members of the Daring Four, "Isn't it amazing how rough a place it is, considering it's supposed to be a marvel of the modern world?"

Phryne, however, seemed almost affronted by the thought, her love for the charms of the area offended at the seeming lack of adventure in the air, "I wouldn't be so hard on them, Dot. At least they had the decency to build a Savoy."

"And _that_," Jack teased, "is _the_ _mark_ of civilisation." Phryne glanced over at him.

"Well, it is certainly a sign that, despite appearances, there is more bubbling beneath the surface of the place than the hoards of flea-bitten camels suggest," she was smiling despite the censure, "And to be perfectly honest, I can't quite see the appeal in having the _whole world_ look the same."

"Provided they have a Savoy," Dot countered cheekily, her smile a wisp of a thing pressed into her cheek. Phryne blinked.

"It seems Dot has learned everything I could _possibly_ teach her," she grinned, "perhaps its time we set her adrift?"

"Or out for her first taste of _The Wilds_," Jack returned, waggling his eyebrows, "see how she handles those hoards of flea-bitten camels."

"With aplomb and finesse, I am sure," came the steady assurance of Mr Butler.

"I wouldn't doubt it for a second," agreed Phryne with a bubbling laugh.

xXx

The reality of The Wilds, as Jack had referred to them, was surprisingly sophisticated when the party reached the end of the gangplank. The bustle of port was as pulsing as Melbourne's wharf and greatly exaggerated by the rushed tones of Arabic that circulated with supreme urgency, the subconscious desire to make sense of the mayhem leaving most of the party tripping over the foreign syllables with increasing bewilderment. Phryne, of course, was in her element. While her Arabic was sketchy at best and barely existent at honest, her ears drank up the sound with eager attempts to absorb it all through her very pores if she could. She was clothed in a collared white shirt and khaki jodhpurs, which were causing an equal amount of intrigue and outrage. Her face was protected from the sun by a matching pith, which closely resembled the ones worn by the nursing corps in North Africa during the war. From it emerged a cream scarf of pure chiffon, which wrapped itself neatly around her chin and over one shoulder.

One could not simply alight from a ship in Port Said, Jack surmised; an entrance was always necessary.

Early drinks at the Savoy were the first port of call, a complimentary service for those travelling on to Europe despite the fact that most would sail before they had need of a room at the hotel. The decor was predictably Egyptian, papyrus reeds painted on every wall in a gorgeously art-deco arrangement of gold and soft blue, carefully accentuating the gilt staircase that directed patrons upstairs into what were sure to be rooms full of wicker and billowing cream curtains. Phryne assumed that there must be some agreement between the hotelier and the shipping line that proved mutually beneficial and she was certainly most grateful for the deliciously refreshing hibiscus blend that greeted them at the hand of a very solemn young gentleman in a deep red fez. Her attempts at conversation were almost comically futile, but served as a sort of game until she was satisfied that the time of sail was set and she could properly take in the Port without fear of being left behind.

Not that Colonel Pickford would have stood for _that_.

The sun had already passed its apex by the time she was truly amongst the heart of the town, her sturdy boots stepping out amongst the almost assaulting smells of Port Said's greatest attraction. Unlike the Savoy, the town outside had succumbed to the harsher elements of its extreme placing and the dry clay of several buildings seemed to crack under the heat and dust, covered only by chipping paint and strategically draped carpet. The Central Bazaar stretched carefully along the outskirts of the expatriate district, like a delightful moss trying its chances with the most nutritious part of the tree; it felt rather as though she and the others were barely three feet from the Savoy when she heard the telling cries of the salesmen at work in their limited English.

"Precious Lapis Lazuli! A beautiful gem for a beautiful woman!" came the first, heavily-accented cry.

"Constantinople Carpet! A very special deal!" ran the second, as though vying for attention.

"Best price! Best price!"

There were other broken dialects as well, a little of what might be called French, some German - though that was limited and yelled in slightly softer tones Dot noted before she had become distracted by a dazzling set of old Egyptian paintings and was caught into a discussion she had not wished to have, with only Mr Butler - who came immediately to her aid - for support. Phryne was moved by none of the cajoling, choosing to look only at that which caught her eye on its own merit and seemingly oblivious to Dot's plight, but for her knowledge that Mr Butler would take good care of her and the slight grin that creased the side of her face. How often had she seen nurses return with pieces of the _original treasure _of this Pharaoh or that? Or a digger swindled beyond belief on the same promise? She was well and truly in command and thought it might be a grand adventure for Dot to haggle her way to freedom. She had little idea of Jack following close behind utterly horrified by the glances that followed her. On this occasion, it had nothing at all to do with flirtation, for there was none of it to be had, but with the barely-concealed, predatory ownership of entitled eyes.

They were not in Australia any more.

Of this, Phryne was well-aware in her wandering and had not anticipated, nor sought his careful protective instinct. There had been sheiks enough in Paris, Italy, certainly in Constantinople. There had been an offer of a million camels once - she was assured she ought to be flattered. As it was, she ignored the sensation, not inclined to allow it to rob her of her afternoon, and certainly not about to capitulate to the prevailing understanding that women ought to be in tow behind a responsible male, or nowhere at all. She found her way with confidence amongst the palette of brightly coloured tents as they were separated from the others, stopping where she would and entering not a single conversation with any vendor - since to do so would only end in a sale, or deepest offence. She seemed to manage it with a careful holding of the hand, clad in light brown leather and they seemed to accept her polite disinterest with deference.

"I'd better pick up something to take home to Aunt P," she said brightly after repeating the ritual a number of times, "she'll never forgive me for whisking away on such little notice."

"And you think gifts will appease her?" Jack asked, looking suspiciously from side to side and back for any sign of Dot and Mr Butler.

"Not at all," she answered, daring to pick up a delightful little coffee urn of beaten brass as her grin spread across her lips, "but it might serve as a distraction to allow me the chance to slip away before her sermon grows too righteous, and she's able to properly associate me with the crime."

He met her impish gaze as though it had been written for him.

"I doubt that will match her blue delft tea service," he offered by way of sardonic chastisement. It only seemed to encourage her, however, and Phryne quirked her head in open curiosity.

"And are you much acquainted with Aunt Prudence's blue delft tea service?"

"By observation only, I assure you."

"I had no idea you had such an eye for fine china," she quipped.

"Nor you a taste for Turkish Coffee?" he queried, stepping out of her little ring of teasing.

"It's not for the faint-hearted, certainly," she returned, "we drank bucket loads of the stuff in Montparnasse. Very _Bohemian_, you understand."

"Very," he added gravely as she placed the coffee pot back and settled beside him as they moved on to the next stall, absolutely ignoring the vendor who had all but fallen over himself when Phryne had put hand to product. "We seem to have lost Miss Williams," he added after a moment.

"Mr Butler is under strict instructions to stay with her and return her to the hotel in good time," Phryne said, somewhat matter-of-factly, "she'll be fine." It made Jack feel foolish to think he had suspected Miss Fisher of recklessness on the part of her companion, however rightly he had asserted it weeks before. He tried to relax, since Phryne had assured him that Mr Butler knew what he was about.

"And you?" she asked conversationally.

"And I, what?" they passed a tent that wreaked to high Heaven of every kind of spice.

"Will you bring back something from your travels?" It seemed the most natural thing in the world.

"And to whom would I be bringing this _something_?" he asked, a tinge of apprehension still about him. Phryne appraised him carefully as her hands slid into place in the small of her back, and Jack thought she looked all the world like a colonial nomad, bound to ride a camel any second. She only lacked a riding crop, and an entourage of porters. Phryne found it interesting that his first thought in buying something was to attribute its necessity as a gift. Must one have a someone to buy it for? She attributed the uneasiness that descended to what must still be the freshness of his divorce.

She didn't probe, though she wanted to, filing the thought away and burying it with a quip. "I'm sure Hugh could always use a new rug or two," the thought was thoroughly hilarious.

"The only place Collins would have _place_ for a rug or two would be in wearing them in to work," Jack countered with amusement.

Phryne chuckled, "Perhaps a little change in uniform is just what the Constabulary needs!"

"Why? Are you afraid you'll look dull in black?" he said. She blinked, at first, not expecting the comment at all. Her natural talent for masking, however, swiftly took over.

"Frankly, Jack, I'm appalled," she lifted her nose as though at the very idea that women could be police officers, her cheek returning in due course to offset it, "I never look dull in anything."

He did not have time to laugh.

With the speed of a desert asp Phryne was very suddenly everywhere at once. His shoulders were seized and his blazer upset by the rapid change in direction, the quick confines of a very small alleyway between tents enveloping them into the thick cloth of either side as she pulled them into it. He ought to be used, by now, to the actions of hers that seemed to spring upon him like a gazelle, but he doubted he would ever get used to being forced into small spaces with her on short notice. He tried to get his bearings; they were concealed from the crowd here, her back flush against the tent's side even as she seemed entirely too closely pressed to him. They were face to face, but for the fact that her head was turned towards the street, peering out where it could, looking for something. Any attempt to gain some distance from her was not compelling in light of the flexible material around them. He froze, her hands still holding his shoulders in place where she had grabbed him.

"Don't look now," she said, as though they were having sandwiches on the _Principessa_, "but there's a gentleman out there with a weapon and a very good knack for matching footsteps."

The announcement only served to unsettle Jack further at the fact that, in all his searching, he had not spotted this _gentleman_. There was no pause to dwell on this, however, as she soon began to shuffle them along towards the other end of what barely passed for a gap. It was awkward and Jack could not help but feel his limbs rigidly everywhere they should be. The closer they drew to two support lines, which crossed in the midst of the alley and drew the tent material right into their way, the surer Jack was they could not get through.

"I hope you've packed a clear escape in that hat," he muttered. She only turned to make a face at him.

"Here," she said and he waited for her to hand him the offending item, but received instead a swift push downwards to the shoulders and a steady panic as she lifted her knee. He retracted from her like he had been scorched as the inside edge of that knee drew up alongside his hip. Phryne's smile was diabolic as she silently laughed at him. "_Your _knee, Inspector," was all she offered by way of instruction. He finally understood, dropping down as much as he could in the claustrophobia and bending a knee for her to scale. She planted a boot firmly on it in her haste - the force of which he would later complain about - and used the leverage to wiggle her way up and over the crossed-line obstacle, landing with a thud impossibly light on the other side and with a clear path to the next aisle of the bazaar. She straightened her hat with a bright smile, but it quickly vanished as she realised that the solution would not be a repeat performance.

Her knees were now much too far away for Jack to get over.

It was his turn to make a face, and he rolled his eyes as he turned to the cross where the support chords connected and tested them with a heavy lean. They gave a little, allowing space for him to perhaps get a foot up and over them. Whatever he did, it was not with the same elegance, and when he landed he was certain he had not maintained the same air of control as she had managed before the space opened up for their escape. He said nothing as they made their way to a new opening.

"Do you think we lost him?" Jack asked as they emerged on the other side into the bustle of the crowd once more, unsure since he had not seen the man himself.

"Lost him?" Phryne returned with a frown, "I hope you're not losing your nerve already, Jack. What I think is that we have the advantage of surprise now and I fully intend to discover just what all this curiosity was about."

"Of course," was all he offered drily with a distinct lack of surprise.

xXx

The woman was gone, disappeared for all he could make sense of it. He clutched at his pistol with agitation, the handle clammy in his hand as he considered his instructions. It had been a simple task, one act to set his record straight and commend himself - but she was gone and his eyes still scanned frantically across the crowds to correct his grievous error some time after he had lost them. There were robes being measured for length, cufflinks being engraved, even a small café that held a lamb sizzling within over roasting coals, but he could not spy the drift of perfect cream in the breeze, or the distinction of cheekbones beneath the shift. He froze where he was, trying not to imagine the anger he would face if he failed. He did not know how long he had been standing in place. This, he was told, was their last chance before -

There!

In the press of patrons across the way, he could spy the telltale tilt of that hat. He clutched his weapon closer and stepped back into the recesses of a trinket shop. He tilted his head to see out and noticed her just behind a gaggle of women hidden beneath their black burqa. The contrast was incredible. He slipped from his position and followed the line of tents closely, hiding in the shadows where it permitted and turning his back here and there as he made his way forward. He could not see the man who had accompanied her, had walked behind her like a dog.

It would be his victory, then, to snatch his woman from beneath his nose, and deserved.

He edged closer - she seemed to be looking for someone - him? She turned suddenly, and so did he, into the face of a vendor of fine stones. The man cursed him for his clumsiness and shoved him back where he had almost smothered him. He raised one hand in apology, the other heavy with the weight of his pistol. He turned back, desperate to know if she had sighted him, or made a run for it. No! There she was, her head turned to another vendor who seemed to be attempting to sell to her a papyrus of some awful forgery.

Now was the time.

Stepping out into the throng, he caught the wave towards her, holding his pistol at just the right angle and waiting until it carried him to a position behind her. Timing would be everything, he must not arouse the suspicions of the vendor. There was _still_ no sign of her guardian. The conversation ended, a gloved hand raised to dismiss the sale as she made off in the other direction. He cocked his weapon. He raised it. Placing it squarely into her back, he swept forward and took a tight grip of her elbow.

"Say nothing," he whispered hoarsely at her, "or I will kill you where you stand." She raised a hand, just as she had before, as though to appease him. To assure him she would not make a sound. It would be easy now. Foreigners disappeared often in Port Said, especially in these dangerous times. It would seem like nothing, a mugging, or a killing for revenge. He would be well clear of her body before the authorities even began the search.

They walked a little ways through the bazaar, weaving through it all until the came across the edge of it and an alleyway proper, between a house and guild of some kind. The streets here were a warren, he knew, so he slowly edged her forward until he was sure they could not be seen and he stopped in his tracks.

"On your knees," he hissed malevolently. She hesitated, her hands now quivering in the shifting shadow of the afternoon. She was afraid. How predictable. For all that he had heard of this _extraordinary woman__… _She took to her knees, first one bending and then the other until she knelt. He raised his hand and held his sneer in place, ready to pull the trigger and do what must be done.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," came a sleek sound from behind him, attached seemingly to the cold press of a barrel to the base of his skull. It felt oddly relieving in the heat of the day, even this late into the afternoon. His back went rigid as he tried to make sense of it. "Drop it," came the next crisp syllable, sounding rather like a cat purring elegantly, even in its demanding tone. "I said -"

He dropped his pistol, raising his hands and turning to face her even as fear wretched into his lungs and the consequences of his failure became apparent. When he rounded, he found a figure draped in a rich purple yelek, her black cap of hair covered carefully by a matching scarf and veil. Her blue eyes sparkled over it as he could see her smile hinted under the smooth contours of the sheer fabric. Lined with a gold cuff at the ankle, he noted that even now she wore harem pants, rather than the skirted robe attributed to most women, and a gold sash to highlight her waist.

It alarmed him.

"It's all right, Dot, you can get up now," Phryne said calmly as she stepped forward to force him back, kicking aside his gun with newly acquired Egyptian slippers - which she was certain would follow her everywhere from the bath and back, now that she had felt their exquisite craftsmanship. Dot had already turned to see what was happening, her face white even as she gathered a sort of determined resolve as she stood and dusted off the trousers which were now causing her perhaps more alarm than the potential shooter. Jack stepped forward to wrest the pistol from the ground, Mr Butler not far behind him as they delighted in having found their man.

"I'm sure you've got an excellent reason for following us about," Phryne suggested as she cocked her own pistol, the pearl handle glinting out in the passing sun from beneath her grip.

He said nothing.

"Who do you work for?" Jack pressed further.

"No English," he said as clearly as the sky was blue. Phryne's eyes narrowed.

"I wouldn't push her, if I were you," Jack warned, the pistol in his hand held low and nonchalant in his confidence that Phryne was threat enough. Dot had dropped back beside Mr Butler, glaring just as fiercely as she could despite her retreat.

"No English," the man cut out again, before spitting theatrically at Phryne's feet. Jack was sure she would shoot him and as a shot rang out he wasn't entirely sure she hadn't. A bullet plowed into the man's shoulder from above and as the party spun around, they caught only glimpse of the tail end of a robe as the shooter made a dash for it. In their shock, their stalker took his moment.

"Miss!" Dot cried as he dashed for another small, winding street.

"You go after _him_," Phryne declared, pointing up at the roof, "I'll take care of this -" Whatever fine description followed, Jack could not hear it as she dashed after the quarry that had almost been hers.

Vengeance, Jack mused, for the nearness of his spittle to her slippers.

They gave chase, each in their own direction and Dot and Mr Butler made their choices, Dot charging after her mistress and the butler figuring that the Inspector could use some support. Small buildings dashed passed and Jack watched as his assailant leapt across each narrow little gap that registered as the street below. He had to make it up onto the roof somehow. He stopped in his rushing, looking from washing line to window sill to abandoned crate. Nothing looked too promising. He hurried through a nearby door, they _had _to have a set of stairs.

Phryne had greater luck, her quarry leaving a trail of scarlet in his wake and beginning to slow as the shock and pain of his gunshot wound took over. She rounded a corner with agility, Dot scampering after moments before dust and feathers erupted in front of them. The runner had upended some crates that housed a few devastated hens. Phryne halted with a grunt, shielding her eyes at first. Quickly recovering, she picked her way through the remnants and leapt after him - Dot hesitated, wanting to help the poor creatures and yelling her apology as she left them behind.

After screams and assorted curses in Arabic, Jack emerged on the roof, Mr Butler beside him and seemingly unfased by the harem they had just passed through. It took but a moment to locate their target, leaping from house to house in a full black robe. Jack gave chase, sprinting towards a gap and clearing it with a huff of effort. He was alarmed when Mr Butler landed beside him, a shrug all he had to offer in return for Jack's incredulous stare. They pelted together towards the next hurdle.

Phryne took aim as she cut into a long street, the original stalker leaning against the wall and clearly struggling. "Stop!" she yelled, though she was not prepared to shoot him - there was much he still had to tell her. The exclamation only served to rejig his confidence and he made a bolt for the end of the street. Phryne growled and forced herself forward again.

It seemed to be some kind of wooden lattice, and as Jack observed the hole in it, he assumed that the disappearing act the shooter had pulled had involved tumbling through this flimsy roof design and into the plaza below. He swiftly followed, landing with a thud and then a groan as he realised there were three different exits from the plaza and no clear sign of his escape. He looked instantly to the sanded floor, noting the scuffle of it where the man must have landed. Mr Butler dropped down beside him.

"There," the older man barked as they both latched on to the trail of footsteps into the first alley exit.

Phryne's chest was beginning to heave, much to her chagrin and she sensed Dot had lagged behind her by quite a bit as she cut into the next street and halted as her senses picked up on a problem. There were two possible choices of direction and a cobbled street to boot. Telling which way he had gone would be impossible if she did not act quickly. She rushed to where the streets intersected, looking one way and then the next and seeing absolutely _nothing, _not even a sign of blood, which was just her luck. She tore the veil from her face and let it fall to her shoulders as she tried to breathe, turning on the spot as though the action might make the outcome of this scenario somehow different.

"Damn!" she yelled loudly, when it appeared not to be the case.

The footprints took Jack and Mr Butler on beyond another small stack of houses, though the winding had begun to confuse their direction and Jack began to worry that they were running themselves into danger. They charged on and on, and a heaviness began to appear in the Inspector's gut, even as it settled into his limbs.

This was not promising.

His agitation gave rise to another burst of energy and he charged down the next lane even as the sand turned to cobbles beneath him and he _knew _he would no longer be able to track the man. It grew futile as he turned and turned again, now no longer sure he was even heading in the right direction. Mr Butler kept up with him as he too perceived the increasingly unlikelihood of their success.

It wasn't until he ran headlong into another figure in the street that he conceded his loss; the tangle of scented silks and gasp of outrage in familiar tones cutting across everything until his gaze was locked in place by passionate blue eyes.

"Miss Fisher?" he stumbled over his discovery, "How - ?"

"Oh _damn it all_, Jack!" she cried on seeing him there, just as Dot shuffled up behind her, panting as she leaned against the wall of a nearby house. Mr Butler was not far behind Jack, his breath also losing its way in the sweat now appearing finely along his brow.

"No sign of him," Jack cut out, clearly as frustrated by the news as Phryne would be to hear it.

"It appears we are bested by an intricate knowledge of these streets," she all but spat, her cheeks coloured by the exercise and their failure.

"Who were they, do you think?" Dot asked brightly.

"I have no idea," Phryne muttered in her annoyance, her huffed breath now giving itself decidedly away.

"We should report this to the authorities," Jack offered on instinct, ever trying to keep ahead and on to the next movement.

"I'm afraid there's not much we could tell them, sir," Mr Butler said. Jack knew he was right.

"Not without giving away much to much about ourselves," Phryne agreed. She placed her hands on her hips and allowed her mind to rifle through all that it had gathered in the encounter.

"There's got to be something we can do," Jack offered, the charged nerves of the last three weeks desperate to exert themselves to some end, and thoroughly unsettled by the fact that his fears had been confirmed and then _let loose_.

"There's only one thing left to do," Phryne conceded, cutting across his hopes with defeat of her own, "we'd better get back to the ship, or we'll _miss it_."

As he turned to look at her, dressed in every exotic wrap of their environment, he knew she was right.

xXx

_A.N: So, I realise that for a fic called __'__When in Rome__'__, this one has spent absolutely no time __**in Rome**_**. **I promise we'll be there within minutes of the next chapter going up! It's just that the Suez was far too tantalising a spot _not_ to have a scene written there. Thank you for your patience. ;)


End file.
